


the lone traveller, forging futures

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF sansa stark, F/M, Family Drama, House Stark, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Previous time travel, Robb Stark is a Gift, Season/Series 01, Sequel, Time Travel Fix-It, Well... almost nobody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-03-12 10:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13545138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Always, the threat from the far North looms closer. Sansa has found a way to marry a decent man before Robert Baratheon comes North, prevented Jon from taking the Black, and tied Theon to House Stark, but has yet to confront the wrathful Lannisters. Sansa refuses to be a bystander to tragedy any longer, but can she ever hope to win the game of thrones?*Direct sequel tothe lone traveller, standing strong. It won't be easy to follow without reading that first :)ON HIATUS WHILE I WORK ON MY NOVEL





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

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**Summary for the Chapter:**

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>  _The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown._   
> 
> 
> -H.P Lovecraft

The tiny direwolf pups had been an omen Sansa hadn’t been aware she was waiting for. But when she held Lady in her arms again for the first time, her small furry body warm and wriggling, it was as if a deep well of despair had opened in her stomach. Every day that followed, she expected her lord father to announce that King Robert was bringing his court to Winterfell. Trudging toward her home, with all the subtlety and patience of a battering ram. Sansa had vague recollections of this time in her first life, and it soon became evident that too much time had gone by.

The anxious pit in her tummy was lodged firm. Like a fruit nut swallowed by mistake, laying heavy in her stomach. Each day that passed with no word, Sansa grew more restless. Wondering how far the repercussions of her actions had spread. She lay awake at night, staring at the canopy of her featherbed and trying to remember as many facts about the life she had lived before as possible. It was not an easy undertaking. So much had happened, that the details were lost under the tide of numb misery Sansa had cloaked about herself as a kind of protection. 

Now, Sansa recited what she could recall underneath her breath at night, in an effort to solidify her schemes. She had seemingly prevented two unwanted outcomes already. With Bran fostered at the Dreadfort, he was unable to stumble across the Queen’s secrets. Jon learning to be a seafarer, not bound to remain neutral. Thus, two of Sansa’s brothers were set to embark on an entirely different journey toward maturity. Sansa could only hope these new paths would bring them greater joy and less troubles. 

There was a lingering chill at the back of her neck, whenever she thought too hard on Bran’s previous fate. She could not shake the idea that his mentor, the mysterious Three-Eyed Raven, would still manage to exert some sway over her brother in his dreams as he had before. Hopefully Bran’s yearning to be a knight would be strong enough to overpower any other urges. It did not do to indulge whispers during the hour of the wolf.

Sansa’s own rest was hard to come by. Her worries incessantly tugging her from shallow sleep, like an itch that could not be satiated. When she woke gasping for breath or with tears threatening to burn her cheeks, she had company to console her at least. Two fuzzy companions that yipped in concern and burrowed into her. Keeping her warm and safe. For snuggled onto her bed each night were Lady and Ghost. Her own direwolf was accompanied by Jon’s, because Ghost was too small to be parted from his mother and siblings yet. 

Ghost was the only wolf she had spent any time with as full as a full-grown beast. She was so familiar with the much larger, scruffier version. It was so sweetly strange to see him young again. Little Ghost had been the first of the wolf pups to open his blood-red eyes. Sansa had swooped in to take charge of him, to prevent Ghost from being promised to her new baby sister. Jon and his silent wolf belonged together, and Sansa would see it so.

Since the other circumstances of her life were not flowing in a course she recognised, Sansa had been keeping a watch on Maester Luwin’s interactions with her lord father. Luwin would be the one to inform Lord Stark of any important situations in the South. But neither men seemed alarmed or furtive during in their public discussions. Evidently no ravens had come from the Capital. Sansa had bitten her tongue many a morn, holding back stupid questions she knew would only arouse suspicion. 

Sansa had no reason to be publicly concerned about the health of Jon Arryn. In truth, she couldn’t help but wonder why he had been spared thus far. Alas, too many ears remained at Winterfell for her to be caught asking strange questions. The sennights flew by on a raven’s wings, and soon Ghost was big enough to send to Jon. Sansa found a merchant agree to transport him on his cart. She extracted a promise that the man would box Ghost in a crate, before presenting him to Jon. It would sweeten the surprise that she could not enjoy in person. Still, it was a moment of glee for Sansa, to kiss the pup on his fuzzy nose before lifting him onto the cart. But the pleasurable feeling was ephemeral, swiftly swallowed by the dreaded anticipation.

Jon Arryn should surely be dead by now. Then Robert would come North to claim her Father to lead him to his death. Sansa had not devised an argument against Ned’s appointment as Hand. Not one she believed strong enough to convince her dutiful Father to remain in Winterfell. Sansa could only hope she might convince him to take more men South with him this time. Ned Stark did not realise how corrupt the Capital was, how much Lannister influence had spread there.

As her parents had the new baby, there would be no talk of Mother accompanying him this time. Travel would be too risky for a child so small, not to mention the myriad of diseases and ailments that were rife in cities such as King’s Landing. Bran was at the Dreadfort, and Sansa herself was engaged to an Ironborn who lived in the North. Without Mother and Sansa herself, it was unlikely Father would take Arya. If she had to relinquish Father to King Robert, at least Sansa would not lose anyone else alongside him. 

But in the dreary days rolled by, still no ravens came. Something had changed drastically, but she could not fathom what. Baelish would not have recanted, so Sansa could only assume he had another plan to execute which had not come to fruition yet. Unfortunately, Sansa had no allies in the South to enquire after the state of the Southron court.

Theon could sense she was anxious, she knew. He had done his best to cheer her with flowers, lemoncakes and sweet words. Sansa hated to disappoint him. Yet she could not quite manage to shield the worry in her eyes. Her smile was firmly in place, but it was fixed and brittle, and she knew it did not convince her future husband. Theon seemed to be the only one who could truly see through it, however. When he whispered words of reassurance into her fiery red hair, she would only tuck herself into his chest and savour his embrace. Sansa offered no explanation for her melancholy demeanour, and was gratified that Theon did not demand one.

She had also caught Lady Gwyn sending concerned looks her way a time or two. So far, the forthright woman had refrained from asking her any probing questions. Sansa suspected it would not be long, however. Lady Gwyn was not one to shirk from an uncomfortable subject. Sansa had devised a lie to throw her from the true scent. Sansa only hoped she could convincingly play the blushing maiden. She planned to say she was anxious about wedded life, and having not received her moonblood yet. 

It was the only smokescreen Sansa could think of, to cover the unexplainable source of her distress. But it was essential she was believed. Sansa could not have Gwyn coming to incorrect conclusions. Theon’s aunt might believe Sansa was reluctant to marry her nephew, which was not the case at all. One of Sansa’s most vital goals had been to tie Theon to House Stark, ensuring his loyalty during the wars to come. She resolved to do better to mask her anxiety, lest anyone else notice and draw erroneous assumptions.

*

Sansa sighed heavily, slowly running a hand through the glossy grey furs on Jon’s bed. Weaving the thick fibres through her pale, elegant fingers. They had received a letter from Jon only yesterday. He had set off on his first journey across the Narrow Sea, a short excursion to Braavos. She missed him terribly. His sweet smiles, and quiet, sensible manner. Sansa was not seen Jon since Wylla Manderly’s wedding to Domeric Bolton, held at the pretty Sept in New Harbour. Sansa wondered how Roose Bolton felt about his son and heir marrying into a House which followed the Faith. She knew the Bolton lord had insisted a second ceremony be held in the Dreadfort’s godswood, so he did not seem to hold the vows valid, unless they were made before the heart tree. Most of the Starks attended both, as well as the Martells, who were still their guests, and the Ironborn. Northmen loved an excuse to feast as much as any other, and no doubt the Bolton bannermen enjoyed the rare excuse for some cheer in their dreary keep. The frugal Lord Bolton did not often host celebrations.

The Ironborn were only invited to intend, because Lady Alannys could not bear to be parted from Theon. Lord Balon’s men were chiefly tasked with her protection, so they accompanied her wherever she went. When she had decided to remain in the North, Ned Stark had been sent a very strongly worded letter from Balon Greyjoy. He had outlined in graphic detail what would happen to House Stark, the North, and Ned personally, should any harm come to his wife. Balon only seemed to remember that Theon existed, now that Alannys was a permanent fixture in Winterfell. She had been installed in Robb’s Tower indefinitely. Balon had made several mentions of Theon in his letter also. Including his wish that Theon visit the sea at least once a year, to be blessed by a drowned man and reminded of his roots.

“You can wager with confidence that Uncle Aeron made him write that,” Theon snorted.

Theon had been called to Lord Stark’s solar, to be informed of the relevant parts of the letter. He had returned with a familiar fake smile on his face, a wry twist that made Sansa’s heart ache. Theon’s shoulders were hunched and vulnerable. Sansa squeezed his hand in reassurance, stepping up onto the tip of her toes to press a firm kiss against his cheek. Theon had undertaken another growth spurt lately, to her annoyance. Sansa knew she would catch him up soon, but for now the extra inches were a hindrance to her kisses.

Father did not mention Balon’s letter to any of the children, but because of Theon, Robb and Sansa knew it existed. Robb had grown bolder without Jon around to temper him, and had stolen the missive to slake his curiosity. He shared it with Theon and Sansa in its entirety, after Sansa had admonished him for risking Father’s wrath. Robb merely shrugged off her concerns. After reading the letter, they learned that Yara Greyjoy was set to marry at the close of the year. Balon was insisting that both Alannys and Theon attend the wedding. Sansa wondered if circumstances would allow them to go, or if tensions would be too high by then.

“No doubt to judge for himself if I am worthy to call son,” Theon announced glumly at the news. “Or if he should insist that Yara’s children be named Greyjoy, and rule Pyke in my stead.”

Theon was less confident in his Ironborn roots, now that the contrast between himself and the men from his Father’s household was evident. The other Ironborn were far more crass and harsh than Theon. At first, they had been dismissive of his prowess on horseback, and dubious of his preference for the bow. The men did not know what to make of him, but Aunt Gwyn had been charmed by her nephew and pleased with the way Theon treated his mother. His gentle way with Alannys was clearly beneficial, as she was far more serene, and less prone to wailing fits, than when she first arrived in the North. Because of his behaviour, Gwyn had warmed to Theon greatly. She ordered the Ironborn men to treat their future lord with respect, often reminding the men of Theon’s birthright. Though most were wary at first, Dagmer Cleftjaw had no worries, and had quickly taken Theon beneath his wing. 

Dagmer was the master at arms for House Greyjoy, and had been teaching Theon in arms, battle strategy and sea warfare. Now the younger man had become proficient with a battle axe, under Dagmer’s tutelage. The other Ironborn had warmed somewhat, when they saw how willing Theon was to engage with their culture. The pressure of being in Winterfell was buffing at their rougher edges. They were expected to maintain some decorum, lest they be thrown from the hall or refused ale, as Father had commanded more than once. Eventually, the Ironborn men learnt to be less rowdy. 

Theon had tried to copy their more fierce demeanor at first, but he couldn’t keep it up for long. Not least because Rickon had burst into tears, after Theon had growled at him for being underfoot. Sansa had sent him a glare that could have frozen his heart, were she a shadowbinder from Asshai. Contrite, Theon had then joined her in comforting the youngest male Stark. Theon ended the afternoon carrying Rickon about on his shoulders. After that, the Theon she had come to love made a return, and the Ironborn had gradually grown used to him. Some had even copied his ‘greenlander’ ways. Sansa had witnessed a man named Sigurd Stonehouse present Lyra Mormont with a fistful of violets, after complimenting her skill in the sparring yard. Despite the historic hatred between their people, Lyra had accepted the flowers with grace and a deep blush. Later, she had asked for Sansa’s help in sewing their likeness onto a handkerchief.

Sigurd was not the only Ironborn to settle in after a period of awkwardness. The Goodbrother triplets were a few years older than Theon. They therefore seemed to consider themselves too old to play and jape with the Starks. At first the young men kept their distance, aside from when sparring in the yard. In an effort to win them over, Theon and Robb decided to lure them to the First Keep with illicit ale. Several card games later, they were all firm friends.

The triplets were fiendish about card games. They had found rather unexpected kindred in Nymeria Sand, who taught everyone to play a Dornish game. It was a variant of something popular across the Narrow Sea. The game involved the sums of cards, and betting on the likelihood of reaching a certain number with the cards dealt in the next round. Because of this, Sansa could not keep up with it. Her skills with sums had not improved overmuch, despite Robb’s continuing lessons. Her brother had learnt to be more patient and thorough with his clarifications, but Sansa still considered Robb a rather lacklustre teacher. She cherished the time they spent together though, despite her frustrating lack of progress. Sansa would never take her siblings for granted again.

Sansa was gratified by the integration of households taking place in Winterfell. It made her grin to see Nymeria cheerfully rake in her card winnings, or hear Theon gleefully whoop when he won a round. Sansa did not need to partake in the games herself to reap the rewards. Winterfell’s occupants gradually grew more comfortable with one another, despite their different customs, religions and practices. Oberyn Martell seemed mildly concerned that his daughter was oft surrounded by Ironborn men, but if he commented on it, it was not in Sansa’s hearing.

Sansa saw little of the famed Red Viper, who did not often cross her path. Oberyn Martell was a smooth man, overconfident and rather brazen. His bold Dornish colours stood out among the dark boiled leather worn by most men in the North. Whenever he was seated near Mother at the high table she seemed uncomfortable. Catelyn Stark could not abide vulgarity, and blushed at the strange opinions Oberyn had, or at least his fortright manner. The men of the household were too in awe of his skills with the spear to care about his odd words. 

Oberyn did not often enter the training yard, but when he did, every man there vied for a chance to take him on. So far, he had consented to spar with Robb, a few Ironborn and Jory Cassel. Of these, only Dagmer Clefjaw provided a challenge. Though their choice of weaponry was wildly different, they were both extremely skilled and fast. Their fight lasted until a deluge of rain put paid to it, leaving no clear victor. Oberyn had offered his hand to Theon’s distant relative, and the two men had held a mutual respect ever since.

Generally, Oberyn spent a lot of time in Winter Town, or speaking with the older servants of Winterfell. It seemed evident to Sansa that he must be asking after Ned’s conduct at the close of Robert’s Rebellion. Her letter to Dorne was not difficult to decipher, and she suspected he was gathering information on Jon’s mysterious origins. There were few possible candidates for baring Jon. One of whom was Ashara Dayne, a woman Oberyn had personally known, so he would had made quick work of that rumour. If he found the answers he sought, Sansa also did not discover. She was not so foolish as to dog his steps and ask after his line of questioning. It was enough to know that Oberyn was asking questions at all. He would come to the correct conclusions in time.

Despite the thawing of their guests, Sansa still wished Jon were with her in this moment. She flopped backward on her brother’s cold bed, and curled up on her side until the furs began to warm from her heat. Jon had been her solid, dependable rock in her first life. After all the madness of the war had finally stopped dragging Sansa all about the Seven Kingdoms, the two of them had reinstalled themselves in Winterfell. For a time, they had ruled the North together.

Sansa and Arya had never been close. After returning from Essos, the Arya that Sansa remembered was only present intermittently. Her sister had suffered through her own struggles, and had oft retreated behind an empty visage, rather than deal with it. She spent hour after hour silently practicing her deadly swordplay against imaginary foes, sparring with any foolish enough to ask. They had found a way to work together, but had never managed to bridge the gap between them.

Dealing with Bran had been worse. Bran spent all his time in the godswood, communing with the gods. He stayed there so long Sansa feared he would freeze to death in the snow. The only thing more frightening than the milk-white of Bran’s rolled-back eyes, was when they would return to the brown that she recalled being soft and unguarded. Bran would stare at her blankly, not a trace of warmth to be found in his face. 

He spoke of terrible, horrific things without a trace of sympathy in his voice, as though he could no longer understand the weight of his words. It was as though Sansa were talking to a tree or animal, given voice but no emotion. Sansa had cared for him as best she could, but how could she love that unfeeling thing as a brother?

Jon had been different. Jon was still Jon, in a way that Bran and Arya were not. Of all the remaining Starks, Sansa included, Jon was the only one that grew up to be a man truly reflecting his youthful self. He had only grown more honourable during his time at the Wall. Becoming the Lord Commander had given him the confidence to command men. Jon had reminded Sansa so much of her lord father. And she had loved him.

It had been difficult to return to a time when Jon did not trust her. His childhood self did not come to her with his troubles, to unburden some of the weight or seek her advice. She could not comfort him when he grew sullen. Young Jon did not look at Sansa with the affection he showed to Arya and the boys. She had not been able to confide all her plans to him. They had come to rely on one another when they ruled the North together, no secrets between them. As a child, Jon was almost afraid of her, always leery of offending her ladylike sensibilities. 

Through her efforts to charm and clothe him, they were closer now. But still only a shade of what they had been. After the brutality of war had claimed their family, they were the first Starks reunited. They believed themselves to be the only two of House Stark still living. It had bonded Jon and Sansa in a way that could never be replicated in this life. Not least because their family would have to suffer similar losses again for the same tether to form, and Sansa would not allow that to happen.

But still, Sansa missed that deeper bond with Jon. She longed to speak with her brother, to hold his warm hand in her own. To bask before the fire with the man that knew all Sansa had suffered, yet saw only strength in her. Sitting in his empty room and imagining the counsel her Jon might give, was the closest Sansa could come to seeing him again. If she closed her eyes, she could picture herself in the Winterfell she ruled over as Lady Stark. She could pretend her Jon would come through the door to ask her opinion over goblets of wine.

But alas, Sansa was now alone with her melancholy and fears. She wallowed for what might have been an hour, before she was rudely interrupted by Robb. Sansa sat up in alarm when her agitated brother slammed open Jon’s door. He abruptly stopped short, on finding only her there, irritation flashing across his features.

“Seven Hells,” Robb hissed, kicking the door closed in obvious frustration. “I forgot Jon wasn’t here.”

There was something sheepish about Robb’s countenance. Sansa suspected it was due to having a moment of unbridled emotion witnessed by his sister. Men could be strangely bashful about such things. He would much rather have been emotional in the presence of his brother, who was his own age. Before Robb could regain his countenance and take his leave, Sansa sat up straight. She patted the space beside her on Jon’s bed. Robb let out a heavy sigh, but consented to take up her silent invitation to her relief. She wanted nothing more than to be close with her siblings.

“I miss him too,” Sansa offered her big brother a smile, heartened to see it returned. “Jon is very easy to talk to.”

“Aye,” Robb agreed, flopping down beside her. “And always mindful of his duty, our Jon.”

Sansa bit at her lower lip, not wanting to think on the dangers Jon’s new duties might be placing him in this very moment. There were hazards she was not familiar with in Essos; slavers and pirates and eccentric followers of the Red God. She drew comfort from the knowledge that Jon had Ghost with him, young as the pup was. They had grown quickly and would soon be as big as the hounds in the kennel. And of course, the Manderly men would know the importance of protecting their liege lord’s son. Sansa hoped it would be enough to see Jon safely back to Westeros.

“You seem troubled,” Sansa stated carefully, “Is something amiss?”

Robb ran his eyes across her for several long moments, clearly assessing what he could safely impart. Sansa wondered if he would have taken so long for him to make up his mind, if she were a boy. Then she chided herself for being uncharitable. Robb sparred with her now, and had even showed her blocking techniques against knives, which their parents had forbidden. 

Sansa was not allowed to spar with hand-held weapons, only allowed to practice with her bow and learn basic hand-to-hand. The methods Ser Rodrick taught her were intended to show her to escape unwanted holds, more than anything else. But Robb showed her how to throw a punch and how to sweep a man’s legs out from under him. That had quickly become one of her favourite moves. She knew Robb trusted and respected her. But Robb was still the eldest of many siblings, and so was naturally protective. He had a tendency hold all his burdens upon himself, and it was a dangerous precedent to set. Sansa resolved to break him of the habit. She knew that a brooding King who was not frank with his advisors, would grow paranoid and churlish.

“Father is leaving,” Robb eventually revealed. “Within the fortnight, and he won’t let me go with him. I have to be the Stark in Winterfell while he is gone. I had planned to return to Moat Cailin, and now that trip will be delayed, for months. I had thought that Father would let me accompany him, at least, in recompense.”

Sansa knew that Robb’s rebuilding of Moat Cailin was being overseen by Mors Umber. It seemed a strange choice to Sansa, and almost everyone else. But according to Robb, the man had a ‘good eye’, and was very good at understanding architect’s notes, and ordering builders about. Still, Robb had spent a long time discussing the project and overseeing it for several moons as it commenced. It was still his, and Robb would be very vexed if Mors Umber saw it through to the end, without more of his input. Sansa knew how earnestly Robb wanted the place fashioned well for Jon. But she also suspected that the keep’s proximity to Greywater Watch was a significant factor, in why Robb had been so eager to return there.

There had been lots of whispers about Robb’s affection for Lord Reed’s only daughter, starting during her time at Winterfell. They had spoken at length, and danced together. It was all the servants spoke of. Mother had seemed alarmed, Father baffled but pleased. None had been surprised that Robb had visited Greywater Watch during his stay in the Neck.

Robb had been low in spirits when his guard had come home to Winterfell, already wistful to return. But Robb had refused to speak of his feelings for Meera, the one time Sansa had asked. She knew not to press the issue. Especially after several green boys had found themselves thoroughly trounced in the training yard, due to their disparaging comments about ‘frog-eaters’ the night before. Most of the North openly scorned the crannogmen. Not many of the mutterings about Robb and Meera among the smallfolk had been particularly kind. Only the truly staunch Northerners, those like Old Nan, would rather their future liege lord marry any manner of Northwoman, providing she was strong enough to bear sons and followed the old ways. But most Northmen did not want their future Lord Paramount to marry a bog-dweller. Especially when that would mean Robb was passing over their more prestigious, wealthy, well-bred daughters.

Sansa did not know how to comfort Robb over this issue. Knowing that Robb did not wish to speak, even indirectly, of Meera. So instead, she focused on the true revelation in Robb’s speech.

“Father is leaving?” she repeated, troubled because this did not happen in her previous life. “Where is he going?”

She fully expected Robb to say South, to King’s Landing. That somehow Sansa's meddling, which had resulted in Jon Arryn sending his lady wife and son to Riverrun, had altered his fate. Mayhaps Robert Baratheon would never travel North, instead imperiously demanding Ned Stark come to court to attend upon him. But Robb’s actual reply stoppered her thoughts enough to leave Sansa speechless.

“The Wall.” Robb said, clipped and without inflection, “Ever since he sent that deserter back to his post, Father and Lord Commander Mormont have been discussing it. Something is going on North of the Wall, some trouble the Watch can’t handle alone.”

Sansa felt her heart beginning to thump erratically, her palms growing sweaty with fear. She knew what the reply to her next enquiry will be, but that did not stop her from making it regardless. She needed to hear it voiced by another, to truly understand the peril that she has wrought.

“What does that mean? What is Father going to do, that the Night’s Watch cannot do alone?”

Robb gazed at her steadily, something like pride mingled with the fear she saw there. 

“Bring castle-trained men to assist them, for a time. Father is going to join Uncle Benjen on his next ranging, North of the Wall.”

After taking her leave of Robb, Sansa spent the next several hours on her knees in the godswood. Begging the old gods to watch over her father and uncle. She knew Uncle Benjen had disappeared Beyond the Wall, in a ranging. Had it been around this time, or later? Sansa only had scant details about that time. Her meddling here in this life might mean that she would lose her lord father in the same instance, or it might mean that Benjen is saved. Sansa prayed that the latter was true. She knelt so long in the dirt that Mother came to find her, to remind her she must change for dinner.

“Sansa, sweetling,” Mother cried, aghast at the tear tracks frozen on Sansa’s cheeks, “Whatever is the matter?”

Sansa declined to answer, burrowing her face into Mother’s floral smelling clothes as she was gathered close. She wanted to threaten the gods. Sansa was brave enough to swear to burn down their weirwoods and turn the North to the Seven, if they failed to watch over the Starks. But she knew such lies would be futile. No god had ever adhered to her bidding before. She was at their mercy, as much as she has always been, for good or ill. And Father, who was a man of logic and reason, would not listen to her, if Sansa tried to warn about the horrors that awaited him Beyond the Wall.


	2. Chapter 2

Father had gathered his bannermen and supplies much faster than Sansa anticipated. In the interim, Mother was beside herself with worry. She had taken to following Father everywhere he went, hissing at him under her breath. Berating him for making such a foolish choice. She said the entire point of the Night’s Watch was to defend the realm from barbarians, so that great lords didn’t have to do it. That Ned had every advantage, due to his close relationship with the King. If Benjen and Lord Commander Mormont truly believed the threat was credible, she insisted that Ned should appeal to Robert directly, and have him send a true army.

Father would only grimly state that the mission was a scouting one. He claimed it was merely a ranging to gather information. The need to behave discreetly was evident, to avoid unwanted conflict with the wild tribes. Father would not even be flying his banners as they travelled, unless absolutely necessary. If all went well, no one would be aware of his movements North of the Wall. This only served to worry Mother more. She was convinced Ned would be set upon by ruffians immediately, mistaken for a Black Brother. Catelyn had Ned’s manservants remove any black leathers from his travel pack, and insisted he wear only shades of brown, grey and muted green while he was gone. Ned would rub her arms from shoulder to elbow reassuringly, whispering heartfelt promises to be cautious.

Sansa said nothing, knowing it was entirely her fault that Father was risking his life. If she hadn’t sowed the seeds of malcontent with Benjen, this situation might not have arisen. She had encouraged him to confer with Old Nan. Benjen might not have felt confident sharing his findings with her father, had he not. Sansa’s guilt grew only deeper, aware that she could not truly be sorry for this mission. Everyone needed to understand the threat from the North was credible. Father needed to see proof of some kind before he would investigate further. As for the rest of the realm, the word of men not detached from it due their allegiance to the Night’s Watch, would be useful indeed. Benjen Stark’s word would be enough for Northmen. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, held more weight with the South. Sansa knew only Father was likely to convince Robert Baratheon to send his troops to defend the Wall.

Sansa pleaded with the gods that Father would remain safe, even Beyond the Wall, protected by his guards and Storm. Lately, Sansa had taken to sitting beside the massive mother direwolf and whispering all her fears into her fluffy fur. The she-wolf was devoted to Theon, but Storm was also fond of the Starks, including Father. She had growled at a merchant that had been short with him, only scant days ago.

Storm spent long hours loping through the wolfwood, sometimes gone for days at a time. She had startled the guards after returning from her first overnight excursion, approaching during the pre-dawn gloom, eyes glowing and muzzle sticky with blood. It was Sansa’s hope that a long journey would appeal to the wolf. Sansa intended on sending the direwolf with the ranging party. She hoped the she-beast would consent to leave Theon. Storm was acclimatized to the Stark household at least. She knew they would feed her, if there was nothing for her to hunt. Sansa hoped it would be enough to persuade the wolf to remain with them, and not return to Winterfell prematurely.

Sansa had run her mind over the defences the party might need, should they encounter a White Walker. She understood from her past conversations with Jon and Samwell Tarly, that the Others should not be close to the Wall at this time. The powerful creatures had remained far out of reach, until they made their assault on a huge gathering of wildlings Jon had been unable to save. The Others had remained in the Lands of Always Winter for long a time. They marched to war when they had picked off enough wilding clans to amass their army. Nothing Sansa had done to change her own life should have any impact on the goings on North of the Wall. Events there should remain largely unchanged for some time, before the loss of Jon began to make an impact.

Sansa had pestered Mother a little, to learn what she could of Father’s plans. But Mother was of the opinion that none of them needed to know the details. Sansa found her questions were mostly futile, gaining only platitudes in reply. She learned more from Robb, who Father had taken into his confidence. If Robb was nervous about being left to rule Winterfell in their lord father’s stead, he did an excellent job of masking it. Robb seemed excited for the opportunity, and proud of Father. He thought it very exciting that Father might join the ranks of Starks who had fought and killed wildlings Beyond the Wall.

One afternoon, Sansa came across Robb in the godswood. He was leaning against the heart tree as she had seen her Father do half a hundred times, cleaning Ice. The gigantic sword was taller than her brother, from hilt to razor-sharp tip. Sansa felt her heart almost seize in her chest to see him looking so confident with it.

“Why do you have Father’s greatsword?” Sansa asked with a creeping sense of foreboding.

Robb grinned up at her, clueless. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

He tilted the sword in his hands in awe. The wide blade caught the sunlight, making the distinctive ripples in the Valyrian steel glimmer and shine. Robb looked every inch a hero from a song, clad in soft brown leathers, his Tully red hair burning attractively in the dappled sunshine gleaming through weirwood leaves. Sansa shuddered. Well she remembered the sweet sing the blade had made, as it whipped through the air to cleave off Father’s head on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. She could not deny the beauty of the sword itself however.

“Father says I can keep Ice here at Winterfell, as it’s not practical to fight with. Too bloody large,” Robb laughed, breaking into her appalling memories. He was blissfullly unaware of all the horrific implications of his words. “He thinks the Northern lords will respect me more, as acting Lord of Winterfell, if I lay it across my knees when holding court.”

Sansa gaped at her brother for several long moments. Valiantly resisting the urge to scream at him for being so foolish. But Robb had no way of knowing that Valyrian steel was the one weapon that Father could defend himself with. Should he actually encounter a White Walker, nothing else would save him. Sansa had not known that she could feel so breathtakingly foolish with fright. She had not thought to check that her lord father would take his greatsword North with him. Ned Stark was one of the few men in Westeros who possessed the very weapon necessary to survive battle against the true enemy. He was willing to set it aside. And he might well have done, because Sansa hadn’t had the foresight to ensure he kept it in his possession. Her stomach swopped, threatening to collapse. Sansa swallowed back her bile. The idea that she might have discovered this circumstance too late to prevent it didn’t bear consideration. Wordlessly, she turned to march away and tell Father not to disregard his only weapon of worth.

Immediately, she remembered how futile that would be. A pox on Father’s lack of wonderment! Why couldn’t he be a suspicious man, willing to indulge silly superstitions? Instead, she was forever tied by her inability to face an issue head on with honest words. Sansa turned back to face Robb instead, trying not to let her face give away her desperation. Her big brother was watching her with a furrowed brow. Evidently she had already perplexed him with her reaction.

“Father is being incredibly short-sighted,” Sansa lamented softly, “Does he not remember how Brandon the Breaker defeated the Night’s King, with Ice? How Bael the Bard’s own son beheaded him, with Ice? Kings of Winter have always wielded Ice Beyond the Wall. The wildlings will recognize and respect it. Don’t you think?”

It was all she could think of to incentivise its return. All men were enchanted by Valyrian blades, she knew. To be trusted with an ancestral sword was a great honour, and Sansa suspected Robb would be reluctant to pass up the chance to wield it.

Robb frowned deeply, considering the sword in his hands again. Sansa held her breath.

“Maybe Father ought to take it. It was named for a blade actually made out of Ice, you know. I'd wager the wildlings think it’s still the same one!” Robb grinned mischievously.

“Probably,” Sansa agreed, knowing wildlings understood little about life below the Wall. Still, she did not recall Tormund or any of the others being overly concerned with weapons, the way that most Westerosi men were. They seemed to grab whatever was at hand and focused on being as brutal as possible with it. Crude, but effective.

*

To her great relief, Robb confirmed that Father had accepted her reasoning regarding Ice. Robb seemed a little disappointed, but soon rallied at the thought of being left in charge. He was already making plans to abuse his power, and demand blueberry tarts at every meal. She wanted to laugh at her brother’s gleeful antics, but Sansa was gripped too tightly by indecision. Sansa could not shake the thought that she was being too reticent. Working from the shadows was no use to anyone if they ended up dead because of it. She resolved to provide a clue to the men riding North.

But how to give it? An opportunity dropped into her lap before she could come up with a good excuse. As Captain of Lord Stark’s Guards, Jory Cassel was undertaking the journey. But his horse had lately thrown a shoe. He came to Sansa to politely enquire if he could borrow her mare, Sunbeam. She was a garron, specifically bred to survive North of the Wall. Sansa was very happy to grant this request, and seized the chance to set a condition for it.

Jory was not a man who could easily conceal his feelings. He could not mask his confusion, at her preferred method of payment. But he promised to faithfully relay the message Sansa had asked him to deliver to Father and Uncle Benjen, once they had passed Beyond the Wall. She even heard him muttering it out loud, to better remember the words.

“What weapon can best defeat a monster of ice and magic? Only one that carries fire within it.”

She had to pray it would be enough. Sansa would not be able to explain any direct knowledge. Her supposition was that Father would be too busy keeping his men hale that he would not think too much on the words, unless they became necessary. She did not welcome questions, but some situations would always be worth the risk.

If uncomfortable enquiries were made at a later stage, she had an excuse at the ready. To her mind, it felt too flimsy to stand up the light, but she has become a proficient liar. She thinks she can pass the riddle off as something she had come upon in a dusty old book of legends. A ditty long forgotten. The words were similar enough to the phrases found in stories of the Great Other, and the Last Hero, that she had long learnt by heart.

*

Winterfell was quiet for the first few days, once Father’s party had ridden up North. After a tearful goodbye, Mother was capable only of brittle smiles, and the pretence that she was unmoved. Faithfully, she spent long hours in the Sept, lighting candles in front of the Warrior and Father. Oft bidding Arya and Sansa join her. The girls did as they were told, if only to bring a fleeting smile to their lady mother’s lips. Neither of them wished to give her cause for more grief.

Scant days after the men had marched North, the children received a letter from Jon. It was addressed to Robb, but included passages directed to each of them in turn. Father had his own separate letter, which Master Luwin dutifully sent on to the Wall. The raven would reach Castle Black far in advance of the troop, and Sansa thought it sweet indeed that Father would have good news waiting for him.

Jon had safely arrived in Braavos, and had spent several days observing and adjusting to the Free City. Then he outlined his thoughts and forwarded his missives with a returning ship. Jon took delight in the odd clothing, language and customs of the Free City. He talked of enjoying the food, especially the local sea catches. He claimed they were much fresher and more varied than the North could offer, even on the coast. He was particularly fond of the spiced crab, which was served with a sweet hot sauce that made the eyes water.

Ghost was particularly glad to be back on solid ground. Though the silent wolf had acclimatized better than the Captain of the ship had expected. Land creatures generally detested being confined on board, which is why the man usually refused live cargo of cattle and poultry. Thankfully, Ghost had been on his best behaviour, despite throwing up when they had encountered rough currents. Jon explained how he had taken on extra chores aboard the ship, in recompense for the privilege of favouritism. His tone was fond when describing his duties aboard the ship. Evidently proud he had mastered his knots, and could now scramble up and down the rigging with ease.

Jon found dealing with the heat of Essos the most difficult task. He said it was most strange to walk about with no fur cloak or leathers. Jon felt quite underdressed everywhere he went. He found the salacious dress of many women, and men’s habit of walking the streets shirtless, very off-putting at first. But now he understood the practical benefits of it, it was less offensive.

Jon had also been disturbed by the Red Priests and Priestesses that preached on the streets there, mysterious and ominous in their flowing red robes. One such woman had taken an interest in him specifically. She claimed to have looked into the flames and predicted a ‘great destiny’ for him. Leery, Jon had tried to avoid her, and the streets where such preachers dwelled. But somehow the girl kept finding him. Sansa had tensed up at that. Then felt foolish for doing so. Truly, it was to be expected that others of Melisandre’s ilk would see the same potential in Jon as she had. They spoke into the same flames, after all.

Their wayfaring brother also relayed an incident of great amusement. One night Jon had been too deep in his cups to realise what he was agreeing to. Thus he had woken to a severe stinging on his left shoulder. The lowborn sailors Jon had befriended on the journey, claimed that no self-respecting man could call himself a sailor, without the badge to prove it. This had resulted in Jon now having a tattoo. It was a small ship among rough waves, with a proud white wolf standing regally on the deck, inked high on his shoulder. The lines were swirling, all in shades of blue and white. Robb thought this tale was hilarious, Rickon joining in with his laughter out of pure delight. Arya bemoaned the stupidity of dyeing your own skin, whilst Theon grimaced. He said Jon was lucky if his arm didn’t drop off from disease, some poison in the ink or needles.

Jon had commissioned one of the other deckhands to render his tattoo’s likeness on parchment, to include in his letter. The man had some skill with charcoal. Sansa assessed the image with a critical eye, and could not fault that the design was indeed beautiful. Still, it was traditionally the mark of a savage tribesman. Only mountain clansmen permanently marked their skin in Westeros. Sansa sighed heavily, relieved that at least it wasn’t a dragon.

After the letter had been fawned over and thoroughly discussed, Theon walked Sansa to her room.

“Should you like to visit Braavos some day? To see the crowded streets for yourself?” he asked as they walked arm in arm.

Sansa had never left Westeros. She thought perhaps she would like to venture from its shores, if they ever reached a time of peace. Braavos seemed rather unadventurous, however, and she told him so.

“Yi Ti then, to see your water cows.” Theon teased with a smirk.

“Mayhaps I would like that very much.” Sansa grinned in return, “When you are Lord of the Iron Islands we shall have many ships at our disposal. We could set sail with trusted men and search out treasure in far flung lands.”

“Treasure, eh? And what else shall we do, in these strange and distant lands?”

Sansa shrugged. She hasn’t given it deep thought. Too many obstacles lie in her path until she will be free to follow her wanderlust. “Climb mountains to see miles of desert wasteland. Ride zorses across the planes. Swim in warm, jade green waters. Kiss under unfamiliar star-scapes.”

“Sounds like a lovely dream,” Theon said wistfully. They had reached Sansa’s door, and he turned to face her.

“Aye,” she conceded, “There is no one I’d rather dream it with.”

Sansa rose to the tips of her toes to wrap her arms about his neck, drawing her future husband into a sweet kiss. There was still time to enjoy such indulgences. She fully intended on taking advantage of the quiet moments they had left, before the shadow of war fell upon them all.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa stared at the boy shifting underneath her scrutiny, critically. This was an unexpected outcome of her Father travelling to work with the Night’s Watch. One that she could not have foreseen.

Samwell Tarly knocked his meaty fists together nervously, peering at the girls in her sewing group in mild terror. Beth and Jeyne were looking at him in dubious confusion, whilst Lyra Mormont had a thread dangling from her mouth, from where she’d paused in the middle of snapping it with her teeth. Arya was staring at the boy in complete bewilderment, unable to understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be in the sparring yard. Sarella Sand was openly giggling, albeit behind her hand. Sansa rolled her eyes at the other girls before turning back to smile gently at Sam.

Theon had unceremoniously dumped him in the classroom. Along with the disparaging words, that Robb feared the fat boy would piss himself, if they kept attempting to spar with him. If Robb had been there, Sansa would have cuffed him across the ear. It was a blatant insult to send a boy to do women’s work, because he didn’t fit with the menfolk. Sansa despaired of her big brother sometimes. Though he oft showcased great sensitivity and tact, Robb still had an awful lot to learn about diplomacy. Sam was still the eldest son of a great House, and Sansa was going to remind Robb of it with a few scathing words. But all that could come later. Right now she had to deflect the damage to Sam’s pride.

Sansa had no choice but to hiss at Theon to be kind, under the guise of stepping close to receive a chaste kiss from her betrothed. The kiss lasted too long to be considered anything but heated, however. They lost themselves in sensation, and Theon only let her go at the prim cough of Septa Mordane. The elderly woman’s severe look was enough to send him skittering from the room, with a sly grin on his face. Sansa shook her head in fond amusement.

“Welcome, Sam.” Sansa then said with a gentle smile. “Would like to learn to sew? It’s a wonderful thing to be able to reattach a button, or darn your own socks.”

Sam blushed deeply at her attention. He was seemingly stupefied in the face of a group of giggling girls. He took far too long to gather his wits enough to answer. Sansa kept her smile rigidly fixed, in order to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“I’m not very good at doing things, with my hands. Better at just reading. Only need eyes for that.” Sam let out a nervous bark of laughter.

“I’m sure we can find something for you.” Sansa replied, taking the chubby Southern boy by the arm, leading him to an empty seat. He squashed into the chair beside Sansa's ladies-in-waiting like a potato among cakes and sweets. And frankly, he looked just as ridiculous, but Sansa pressed down her mean thoughts. Sam was a kind man who just needed a place to belong. If she utilised him, he could be a brilliant ally, despite his awkward look.

She left the sewing room at a brisk walk, quickly finding herself in Bran’s chambers. It was the work of scant moments to rummage under her brother’s bed, and unearth his book on Northern history. She recalled how good Sam was at research, and knew this particular tome contained information on the Long Night. She could only hope that Sam would be curious enough to piece together whatever Father and his troops uncovered Beyond the Wall. With the half-forgotten legends in these dusty pages, he should be able to work it out. A clever man had fallen into her clutches, and she wasn’t about to let him go with out exploiting that fact.

Bran wouldn’t miss the book, since when they returned from the Dreadfort, they left Bran behind to take up his page duties for Ser Domeric. Mother had her hands full fretting over Father’s trip, and caring for little baby Mini, to protest any more about the appointment. In fact, Mother had seemed proud that Bran was so excited to squire for her uncle, Ser Brynden, in the future. Being a page at the Dreadfort for Domeric was the first step toward that. Rickon moped about the loss of his usual playmate however, and had taken to following Robb about the castle everywhere. Robb didn’t really mind though, which was a relief. He liked that Rickon hung on his every word, and always agreed with him. If they could somehow persuade him to teach Shaggydog some manners, the boy would be on the road to being a lord. Alas, Shaggy was still liable to bite the head off a pigeon and scatter the feathers in Mother’s recently cleaned chambers, which he had done on more than one occasion.

Sam was positively terrified of their wolves, despite his first introduction to them being the placid and friendly Lady. Shaggy had put paid to Lady’s efforts to befriend him. He had quickly butted his sister out of the way, and growled at Sam so ferociously, that the boy had tripped and fallen on his rump during his scramble to get away. The Stark guardsmen had hooted with laughter at the sight; an inauspicious beginning for Sam living in their castle.

Sansa wondered how Sam Tarly would fit in at Winterfell, without Jon to befriend him. It made excellent sense that Lord Commander Mormont would rid himself of a burden, as Sam was not exactly soldier material. She had previously considered the fact that Sam would likely die at the Wall without Jon’s assistance. During his time at Winterfell, Sam had imparted much about Jon’s early days at the Watch. Sansa knew his tutelage at the sword and bow was the reason why so many of the green recruits had gone on to be competent fighters. Under Ser Alliser Thorne, they were more likely to be beaten into submission than learn anything useful. 

But Sansa had reasoned to herself that she had to remain focused on the bigger picture. Not to concern herself with each individual tiny piece on the board. It simply couldn’t be her duty to save everyone. She’d drive herself mad if she tried.

But the Old Mormont bear had done it for her. He’d taken advantage of Ned Stark’s presence at the Wall, to get a highborn lad that was not sent to the Wall for any crime, out of his hair. Samwell’s Tarly guards, assigned by his father to ensure he reached the Wall and didn’t run away, had long since returned to the Reach. Sam was free to leave, having not yet taken his sacred vows. Sansa wondered what she could make of him. Then a bolt of inspiration hit her. She knew exactly what to do with Sam, or more accurately, where to send him. Because as previously pondered, he was the eldest son of a great House. And therefore good marriage stock, despite being a craven.

*

Sam became a fixture in the sewing room, reading his books. He’d blushed so bright Sansa thought he might be choking, when she had assured him he could borrow Bran’s book indefinitely. Now he often carried the tome about with him, like a token of gratitude. Or at least a reminder of her acceptance.

At first the girls hadn’t known how to react with a boy in the room, but pretty soon they forgot that it was considered unusual for Sam to join them. They began to speak freely in front of him. Lyra even encouraged him to spar with her. With a gentler opponent, and plenty of padded straw armour, Sam learnt a little. It would never be his strength, but then there would always be a need for book learning and other forms of service to a realm. Not every man grew up to be a soldier.

Sansa was less inclined to be charitable toward Sam when he stumbled across a heavy petting session she was thoroughly enjoying with Theon. They were in the safety of Robb’s Tower. With Lady Gwyn at the Dreadfort yet again, and Theon’s mother safely asleep in her room upstairs, they were free to indulge themselves. What started with kisses had led to Theon’s confident, smooth hands sliding down from her shoulders to brush against her bosom. When Sansa sighed heavily into his mouth, and did not protest, Theon pressed his advantage. His hands fluttered beneath the gentle curve of her small breasts. He swallowed Sansa’s deep moan. Theon’s thumb grazed across the central swell of one breast, and she wrenched his hair strongly beneath her hands, enjoying the sound of his resulting hiss. His hand dropped lower, quickly tangled in the laced ribbon tying her dress together at the front. It was a wrap dress, the kind Sarella had shown her how to make. Similar to the style Sansa had often worn in the court of King’s Landing.

She pulled back from the kiss when she felt Theon freeze. His hand was still on the easily unbound ribbon. She bit her plump lower lip, casting him a sultry look from below her eyelashes. He groaned, unable to resist. One hand was enough to tug the bindings undone. The two halves her dress immediately fluttered apart. Theon moaned again at the sight of her smallclothes, plunging one hand beneath her dress to fondle her waist, pulling her close to ravish her neck. Sansa tilted her head to one side to allow him better access, sighing in content.

This was how Samwell Tarly found them. Theon with his hands firmly beneath Sansa’s open dress, ravishing her, to her obvious delight. The poor boy almost chocked on his own spit, in a hacking fit of coughing that seized hold of him. Theon was furious, clearly wanting to thump the boy. Whilst Sansa flushed, horrified to be seen so compromised by someone outside her family. She whipped around to place the boy at her back, fumbling at the ties of her dress.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Theon roared, “Get off on watching do you, you little creep?”

Still fumbling with her laces, Sansa was only just able to grab hold of Theon before he lashed out.

“N-no!” Sam squeaked like a mouse, “I-I thought-”

“Thought what, you Southron fuck? I should put out your eyes!” Theon snarled, which Sansa thought was quite enough. She planted herself in Theon’s path, placing a soothing hand on his chest.

“Peace, my love.” She whispered, taking his face between both of her hands, forcing him to stare into her deep blue gaze. “I’m certain Sam was just lost.”

“Yes!” Sam squealed like a mouse in a trap, “I was looking for the library! I was told it was in a tower…”

Theon sighed heavily, visibly relaxing the tense set of his muscles. Sansa sent him a knowing look, wiggling her eyebrows. Correctly guessing her intention, Theon sent her a protesting grimace. But she only pressed her lips together in silent command. With a put upon sigh, Theon stepped out of her embrace.

“Come along, Sam. I’ll show you to the library.”

Sam gave a nervous giggle, edging back toward the door. “That’s alright, no need to bother, I’ll find it. Not too many towers about the place, really-”

“Nonsense!” Theon exclaimed when Sansa sent him another demanding look. He clapped the younger boy on the shoulder with a wry grin. “I didn’t mean all that stuff about your eyes. I’m not a monster, just a kraken. We’re quick to anger, see, but there’s no point in grudges. Once a kraken has finished ravaging a ship, it returns back to the depths. Then the sea is calm again. Come on, Sam. Bet I can find you a book all about them.”

Sansa’s lingering smile was a proud one, as she watched her beloved lead the way, with bright chatter. Taking on the boy that so needed a friend.

*

Oberyn Martell had expressed an interest in seeing the Wall. So he had gone with Father’s party North. There weren’t too many opportunities to go Beyond the Wall, a part of Westeros known by few. It was too intriguing a prospect for him to pass up. It meant that Ellaria Sand, as well as his daughters (aside from Obara, who had accompanied her father, against the advice of everyone) were left at Winterfell. And furious with the Northmen, when a rider came clad in black. The bells of Winterfell rang out to announce his arrival. The scruffy man hurried to the hall where Robb was holding session with the smallfolk. His clothes were muddied and he declined refreshment, his message too urgent for delay.

The ranging group that had gone North had split into two groups. The party which contained Father, Uncle Benjen and the Dornish had not yet returned. They were feared lost. Ellaria spit fire at the messenger, who recoiled in fear. Nymeria imperiously called for the servants to provide her with a pack, for she was going to ride North and retrieve them herself. It took hours to calm the rabble, with Robb doing his best to mediate the worried Northmen and furious Dornish.

In the subsequent days Mother was a wreck. She dragged Sansa with her into the Sept. Sansa did not complain or decline, not even when her knees grew numb from kneeling on the stone for so long. Mother lit a candle in front of all Seven gods and knelt in front of the Father, with her head bowed deeply in supplication. She prayed to the Father to give her lord husband strength, and to the Warrior to guide his hand in battle, so he could return to them. But as the days went by with no word, by raven or rider, Catelyn Stark began to pray to the Mother to grant her husband the mercy of a clean death. 

Robb grew pale and quiet whenever anyone addressed him as Lord Stark. The possibility of it being true was too close for comfort. Sansa watched as her brother grew withdrawn in the face of his potential responsibilities. They agreed not to send Jon word, when they had no confirmation yet of anything. Sansa never wanted to be the one to pen that letter. She wondered how Jon had received news of Father and Robb’s deaths in their previous life. She had never thought to ask. No one would have written to him, she did not think. He must have gotten generic word from the Lord Commander, as though it were not his own kin that had perished. She felt immense guilt then. Someone should have written to Jon personally, to offer words of comfort and love. She hoped Robb had written to him after Father’s death, but now she would never know.

Sansa said little to anyone. She spent her time praying in the godswood. Asking that she might be granted visions through the trees as Bran once was. She wanted to see her father through the eyes of the ancient weirwoods in the frozen far North. It was a cold comfort to know that Father had Storm and Ice with him. All men must die, after all. No matter the weapons or protection a man has, death always comes for him in the end. So Sansa lit a candle to the Stranger. She prayed in her Mother’s Sept that her family would be granted room in the Seven Heavens if they perished. That they would not be forced to wander the world as corpses directed by the Night King.

She didn’t hold out much hope. She knew her prayers almost always fell on deaf ears.


	4. Chapter 4

All of Winterfell rejoiced when a raven finally put them out of their misery. Father and his ranging party were alive, and eager to return as soon as possible. Several of their bannermen had died with no explanation given as to how, but no highborns of name had perished. Obara Sand and Uncle Benjen had been badly wounded, and though Obara’s wounds were like to heal nicely, for a while Benjen had been at the Stranger’s door. Father wrote that Lord Commander Mormont had granted Benjen leave to return to Winterfell indefinitely, as Maester Luwin had a better chance of saving him than Maester Aemon, who was blind and infirm. So the party returned to Winterfell, bedraggled and numb from the horrors they had witnessed.

Mother had hurried to Father’s side when he alighted from his horse, clasping his hands into both of hers. Wordlessly, their foreheads met as they rekindled the warmth between them. Ellaria Sand was more expressive. She gave a wordless cry when Oberyn appeared, fleeing to his side to embrace him roughly, and kiss his lips. Obara was swarmed by her younger sisters. They clasped her by her uninjured arm, clucking in disapproval over the think bandages about her head and left arm.

Men carried Benjen Stark’s prone body between them, down from the cart they had transported him on, heading toward the first floor of Maester Luwin’s tower. It was a room reserved for sick patients that needed all day care. Father stopped them with a brisk word. He ordered them to take Benjen to the empty room beside Robb’s, in the family quarters.

“It was his room as a boy,” Father said with a grim smile. Robb, who was taking his turn to welcome Father home, looked up at him sharply in surprise.

Jory deftly alighted from Sunbeam’s back, and made his way to Sansa, to thank her for the loan of her horse. Her hardy animal was pleased to see her, snuffling at Sansa’s hair as she petted the beast’s long regal neck.

For a brief time, all was as it should be.

*

Father sent for his vassal lords to attend upon him in person, no envoys to be sent in their place. Aside from Lord Manderly, who was too fat to travel easily. He was the only Northern lord granted leave to send his son and heir in his stead. Catelyn had looked extremely alarmed at that, but Ned had requested that no one ask him questions about his journey, until he had given his own account.

The party was too tired to do much but sleep the first night and day. Father didn’t wake up until just before dinner, Sansa heard Mother impart to Lady Gwyn, who had returned to the castle when they received word that Father was missing. She was a comfort to Mother, as usual, the two women close in confidence.

It was a somber feast. Guardsmen had died, including both North and Dornishmen, and the returning men were all too melancholy and subdued for the traditional merry atmosphere. Sansa noted that the smallfolk had been banished from the room; indeed only Father’s most trusted guardsmen were in attendance. Accompanied by his bannermen, Lords Cerwyn and Bolton and their sons. They were the only two close enough to make it to Winterfell as soon as they received word. The other lords were expected in a sennight, even the Lord Reed, who never left the Neck. He would have to set off immediately and ride hard if he expected to get there on time.

Sansa also noticed that the men were expected to serve themselves; the servants had been dismissed, leaving only a hall filled with the Stark family, their guards, the Dornish, the Boltons and the Cerwyns. Lyra Mormont, Wylla Bolton, Samwell Tarly and even Arya, Bran and Rickon were not allowed to attend. Arya had been furious that Sansa was invited to be there, but Father was unmoved by her hollering. Sansa felt a shiver of anticipation run down her spine, realising that Father didn’t truly want her there either. Judging by his grim expression, Father wanted both his daughters away from whatever ugly truths he was about to impart. Sansa worried for him; he appeared to have aged several years in the short space of time he had been gone, his hair streaked with more silver than she expected and the lines about his face more pronounced.

After eating in muted almost-silence, Father finally rose to his feet and began to talk. He spoke of Lord Commander Mormont’s plea for assistance, and how the Night’s Watch had started to find the remains of dead wildlings, mutilated, their desecrated bodies spread out in the snow in bizarre patterns. The Night’s Watch had suspected for some time that the wild men Beyond the Wall were amassing an army under Mance Rayder, the so-called King Beyond the Wall. There were murmurings at this, as it was news to many.

Father then gave the floor to Oberyn, to Sansa’s surprise. She supposed he must want another lord to share the burden of revelation.

“We travelled for miles before seeing another living soul.” Oberyn snorted, “These people live as rats, and they were not pleased to see us. But they did not attack. They wanted only to keep moving on; but where, they would not tell us.”

Sansa shifted in her seat, wondering if this mission had all been for naught, and they had merely gotten lost, perhaps attacked by a snow bear.

“Then we came across one of these ritual killings. Heaps of bodies, laid out in the snow, in a spiral. From a hill above, our scouts saw what the Lord Commander had described. We all climbed up high, to see it for ourselves.”

“We believed a savage tribe had taken to frightening their enemies with these displays. That Mance Rayder was gathering support from the opposing clansmen to fight back against this threat.” Father continued. Sansa guessed that this was a logical progression of thought, for men who did not believe the Others were a genuine danger in this Age.

“Then we saw we were wrong.” Oberyn hissed, before shaking his head in disbelief and disgust. “Had I not seen it, I would not have believed any man that told me of it.”

A long, menacing silence was dragged out, after that. Sansa felt Robb tense in his seat beside her, the whole room poised on a knife edge, waiting for more.

“We were set upon that night. By a man-shaped creature with unnatural blue eyes.”

Hissing and muttering swelled in the room at that. Mother’s disbelief was palpable. She stared up at Father with her mouth hanging clean open.

Father raised his hand for quiet, and after several grudging minutes, he was granted it. “It was a man, just a man. He died as a man, cleaved in two by my own greatsword. But not before killing two in our party.”

“The ground up there is entirely frozen. We could not bury them. We thought to bring them back to Winterfell.” Oberyn chipped in, and Father nodded, confirming his words.

“We did not know the consequences of our actions.” Father said. “For the next night, those dead men, men I knew and trusted, men I knew to be dead… they rose back to their feet, their eyes that same abnormal blue, and attacked us.”

There was uproar. Lord Bolton was the only man who seemed outwardly unaffected by the news, whilst the other men called out that it could not be true. Again, Father waited for quiet.

“I know that it sounds impossible. Maester Luwin, have you ever known me to be a man that believes in omens, or magic?”

Maester Luwin blinked, not anticipating being called upon. “No, my lord. Ever have you been a logical man, not given to flights of fancy. I have never known you to tolerate those who spoke of prophesy, visions, omens and the like.”

Father nodded sharply. “Indeed I have not. You know me to be a man of reason. I swear to you, for a moment we all believed we had gone mad.”

“But we did not!” Obara called out suddenly, her voice full of fire. “Those dead men attacked us! And they would not stop, not even when we hacked off their limbs. They kept coming, crawling on their bellies across the snow.”

“A blizzard whipped up around us, blinding us to the threat,” Father continued, “And those that died joined the ranks of our attackers.”

“We thought all was lost.” Oberyn revealed, looking down at Ellaria, grief expressive on his face. He had given up on ever seeing her again, Sansa could tell from the slump of his shoulders. They had truly lost all hope.

“Then we were saved.” Father finished, “I do mean true deliverance, my lords. None of us would have survived in that blinding snow, surrounded by enemies on all sides, were it not for the intervention of another.”

“Who was it Father?” asked Robb, unable to keep silent any longer. “Was it the wildlings?”

Finally, the ghost of a smile crossed Father’s face. “Not quite.” He held out a hand, palm side up, to introduce their savior.

From behind the Dornish party, out stepped a small person with near silent steps, clothed in all dark green leathers. It was only when she passed into the light that Sansa could see the woman’s skin was entirely grey-green also. Her huge, wide-set eyes, were a piercing gold like all the direwolves save Ghost. Had Bran not described them to her in detail, Sansa would not have known who and what she was looking at.

“The Children of the Forest,” Sansa breathed, unable to hide her shock. Theon grasped her hand tightly, his knuckles white above her own.

“Seven hells,” she heard him gasp under his breath.

The silence in the hall was absolute. The Northmen were staring at the diminutive woman in open awe.

“It cannot be,” muttered Lord Cerwyn, “We thought you long extinct.”

A small smile settled on the lips of the Child, who was of course not a girl, but full grown for her species. Theon and Robb shared incredulous looks over Sansa’s head, but her eyes were firmly fixed on the strange addition to her lord father’s hall. She had never met a Child before. In her previous life, the ones Bran and Meera had known North of the Wall had all perished in a battle against the Night King. If any others existed in Westeros, she had not known of it. She wondered what it could possibly mean that one of them had chosen to accompany her Father below the Wall.

“Thank you for joining us here tonight, my lady.” Ned Stark took control of his hall once more, though in truth his fellow lords and bannermen were all too shocked to say a word.

The Child smiled again, dipping her head in a shallow bow, setting one foot behind the other to give something of a half-curtsy.

“What is your name, my lady?” Roose Bolton cut in, his sharp ice-blue eyes meeting her golden ones without expression. “If I might be so bold as to enquire.”

The Child set her gold look upon him, and consented to answer.

“The name my Father game me is in the True Tongue, and can be spoken by no man. Bran named me Leaf. You may call me the same, if you wish.” Her voice was melodic and beautiful, and entirely inhuman. There could be no doubt that she was not of man; her strange lilting tone would have confirmed it to a blind man, that did not take in her visage.

“Bran, my lady?” Mother reiterated, no doubt thinking of her own young Brandon.

Leaf’s smile was a deep one at that. “Yes. I was fond of him. He was so very proud when we completed this castle.” She looked about the room, as though taking in the alterations since last she saw it.

Father started, gaping at the small woman, who looked younger than him. “Do you mean to say you helped build this castle, with Bran the Builder?”

“Is that the name by which you know of him?” She shrugged, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “I knew him only as Bran. Did you believe he could have woven such magics as those here, alone?”

“Magic?” Father repeated, quickly distracted by the revelations pouring from Leaf’s mouth. No one protested at the turn the meeting had taken. Sansa was just as enthralled as everyone else.

“How else do you think the water in the pools remains so hot? We set many wards among the stones of this fortress. For protection, prosperity, and long life of the families that live here.”

“How can such charms last?” Maester Luwin asked, and Sansa remembered with a jolt that the old man had forged Valyrian steel link on his chain, meaning he was learned in the higher mysteries- the pompous Oldtown way of saying magic.

In answer to the man’s question, Leaf walked closer, approaching the high table so that her strange, alien features could be better seen in the torchlight. Her eyes flickered over the old man, and not with warmth. Sansa wondered what it was about the old maester that the Child did not approve of.

“Blood.” Leaf said decisively, her eyes and tongue sharp, “Much of magic depends on blood. Bran swore to me that his blood kin would never leave this place. That one of his line would always remain within its boundaries.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Father murmured, as though a long-pondered mystery had finally slotted into place, and Sansa supposed it had.

“Should none remain, the spells would begin to unravel. Eventually, this place it would tear itself apart, stone by stone.”

Maester Luwin’s eyebrows shot up, unconvinced, but Father looked alarmed.

“Forgive me, Lady Leaf.” Mother cut in again, “Might I ask how you killed these… undead men, and assisted my lord husband?”

Leaf’s countenance became friendly once more.

“We used fire to destroy the thralls. Then we lead the descendants of the First Men back to Bran’s Wall.”

“There are more of you, then?” Asked Lord Cerywn, “You are not the last of your kind.”

“I cannot speak of the other clans. My people remain, though we are few in number.” Leaf confirmed, taking a moment to look about the room.

“And you chose to leave your people, and accompany our lord back to his home?” Lord Bolton pressed, the question on everyone’s lips inferred among his words. Why had she come?

“I did not know when I might have another opportunity to meet the seer,” Leaf announced, “I could not risk this chance.”

There were more mutterings at that, and Father’s eyes dropped to the table below, clearly uncomfortable by this development. Sansa felt fear tightening its bands around her heart. Without quite knowing why, she suddenly understood who Leaf had come for.

Sansa was unsurprised when the tiny creature turned back to the high table, and settled her glowing eyes upon her.

“Will you tell me what you have learnt, when you speak to the gods? What your Sight has shown you, of the war to come?”

It was not immediately clear to many who exactly Leaf had singled out. The heads of those seated at the lord’s table swivelled back and forth, looking to see who had been addressed. Only Sansa remained stoic and rigid, her face having lost all colour. At long length, she accepted her fate and stood, her pale green skirts rustling and settling about her like the flutter of spring leaves. A buzzing began in her ears, the susurrus murmurings of her shocked family and their fellow Northmen. Oberyn Martell was staring at her, his eyes glittering darkly with satisfaction.

“I have seen a great battle, raging among snow and ash, between men and pale creatures of ice with terrible, inhuman beauty. I have seen an endless night, where children are born and live and die all in darkness.” Sansa’s voice rang out in the silent hall, the Northmen hanging on her every word. A single tear dripped down her pale cheek.

“I have seen the Promised Prince of Ice and Fire leading the charge against the King of the Night,” she whispered at last; “I have seen the Others.”

The old gods would have their oracle, Sansa knew. Bloodraven had been denied Bran, and so he had claimed her instead, as punishment for her interference and misdeeds.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa felt the ripple of discontent rush across the room like a wave of fear. The Northmen stared at her in varying shades of shock or fright. The Dornish looked disgusted, and Sansa remembered with a sudden blow how wargs were considered little better than slavers by the Andals, who considered them as dark and unnatural as shadowbinders. She wondered if they suspected she was the same.

Leaf did not look surprised at who had spoken to her, or her words. She only looked satisfied, her smile sharp as a razor’s edge.

“Sansa?” Mother’s voice rang out, finally carving open the silence.

Sansa turned watery blue eyes to the woman that had passed them down to her. Mother shook her head, apparently speechless. The thin threads of her dark red tresses were bobbing, the pieces that were not drawn back and woven in the simple Northern fashion. Aunt Gwyn was watching Sansa with mild confusion, but she seemed more intrigued than anything else.

Sansa looked back at the table immediately below her, and almost moved to sit down again, until her Father spoke.

“Lady Leaf is not the only one who chose to accompany us back from the Far North.” He said, and Sansa went rigid, unable to move at those words.

It could only mean… The guards posted at the large mahogany double-door opened them to reveal a band of about five or six men, clad in roughly sewn furs, with primitive weapons and shaggy beards that had never seen a comb. Ruddy faces with jaws filled with yellow teeth, and small eyes accustomed to snowstorms. Sansa felt her heart leap in joy, quite forgetting herself as they shuffled in, clearly unnerved at being so outnumbered.

“Tormund!” she called, thrilled and unable to keep a large smile from splitting her face.

Sansa had wracked her brains trying to imagine how she could bring about an alliance between the Northmen and the Free Folk. But without Jon at the Wall, there was only so much influence she could wield. Benjen was as set in his opinions about the wild men, as any other hardened Brother of the Night’s Watch. Sansa could not rely on him to attempt to parlay with them over their common interests. Not until the threat of the White Walkers was widely believed and understood by actual Northmen.

Her heart had been saddened to think that she might never befriend Jon’s gruff wild man friend again. That he could die, fighting against her father’s own forces or in some other manner, and all possibility of a bond Jon and Tormund would be lost. In her joy to see that despite direct intervention on her behalf, Tormund had found his way into Winterfell, she clean forgot that he would not know her.

The tall, bulky warrior lifted a thick ginger brow in askance.

“You know me, girl?” He rumbled, scratching at his bushy beard in false nonchalance. “Because I don’t know you.”

Sansa blushed and fumbled for a reply. From the corner of her eye, she saw Father shift, tense in anticipation of a brawl. Around the room, Stark men placed their hands to the hilts of their swords. Bolton men had already bared steel at the sight of their long-time enemies.

“Only from my dreams,” Sansa eventually lied, “I have seen you fighting alongside my brother in battle. You were the greatest of friends.”

On her left Robb tensed, sitting up in interest.

Tormund narrowed his eyes in disbelief. He had not failed to miss Robb’s interest, or the common features he shared with Sansa.

“That your brother? The small man?” He pointed at Robb, a mocking grin on his face. Robb bristled at the intended insult.

“It is.” Sansa confirmed, aware that the situation was quickly devolving from whatever her lord father had intended. “But not the one of whom I speak. I saw you fighting with my brother Jon, who is not currently here. He is across the Narrow Sea, in Essos.”

Little Leaf tensed at that, twitching with words on her lips, but she did not release them. Ned Stark took control of the room again, before the situation could get any more bizarre. Sansa sat back down as he began to speak. Theon was as rigid as rock beside her. She made to touch his hand with her smallest finger, looking for comfort or else wishing to impart it. But he twitched away from her, flinging his hand down into his lap so that she could not touch him. Hurt, Sansa slumped against the back of her chair.

“My lords, we have invited these men from Beyond the Wall to treat with us on behalf of their leader, to see if we cannot come to some common ground.” said Father, his Lord of Winterfell mask firmly in place.

“Common ground? With lawless savages?” Lord Cerwyn protested in disbelief, but to everyone’s surprise it was Oberyn Martell that leapt in to defend them.

“These men aided us in our fight against the undead. They lead us to safety, with no guarantee of their own when they passed into lands in the charge of the Night’s Watch. Your liege lord has granted them guest right. Would you turn your back on our ancient traditions of hospitality?”

His tone was clipped, his countenance severe. Lord Cerwyn shrank in his seat, chastened.

“O-of course not!” He protested with a small whine, “But you cannot expect us to trust anything-”

“You will respect that these men have a right to speak for themselves in my hall, Lord Medger.” Father said, “As I have invited them here to do just that.”

The wildlings chuckled at that, baring their teeth. Father beckoned them further into his hall with a wave of his hand. Aunt Gwyn clutched at her dinner knife as though it were a dagger, Mother equally tense at her side.

“Gods be good,” whispered Robb, “Children of the Forest, wildlings… what’s next? Giants?”

“Please,” said Father loudly, “Tell us what you know about the creatures that attacked us.”

“Wights,” said a wildling Sansa did not know. “The dead controlled by the Others.”

“We saw nothing of the Others.” Ned said, “Am I understand they need not be nearby to control the dead?”

“They wield their great power from huge distances. They need not be close.” Leaf confirmed.

“Because you made it so.” Sansa snapped, already ready to be done with his farce. She knew more about the origins of the Others than all of the men in this room combined. Her talks with Bran had been extensive. She did not want to live through another lifetime where the myths surrounding the Others as a separate species from men persisted. The time for honesty had come, and in this lifetime, she actually had one of the culprits before her to demand answers from.

Leaf tensed, her small hands curling into fists. “You know not of what you speak.” She hissed, her unassuming, harmless demeanor gone. In its place was a battle-hardened warrior, grimly acclimatized to carrying out great atrocity.

“I know enough!” Sansa roared. “Why don’t you tell them, Lady Leaf, from whence the Others came?”

A stunned silence spread across the hall again. Sansa sat high in her chair, regal, every inch a Queen of Winter. Her blue eyes flashed with fury.

“It is believed that they are a race of beings from the Land of Always Winter, another form of sentient life, that died out long ago. If they indeed still exist, are we to believe these facts are incorrect, Lady Sansa?” Maester Luwin asked softly.

“You would be better to ask Lady Leaf.” Sansa replied grimly, “She helped create them.”

Leaf bristled, but did not deny the charge or look terribly ashamed.

At long last, Father asked, “Can this be true? Do you know how the Others came into being?”

“We were at war.” Leaf said, “We were losing. Your ancestors where cutting down and burning our sacred trees. Driving us from our forests! We had no choice.”

You always have a choice, Sansa wanted to scream. You do not always have to work in your own interests at the cost of all others. It was a lesson that none of the them; not Cersei or Tywin or Baelish or Daenerys had ever learnt.

“No choice but to…” Maester Luwin pressed gently, but he received a sneer from Leaf all the same.

“To forge a new weapon. It was an experiment. To see if we could control a man the way some of us could control beasts.”

“Skinchangers,” Mother hissed with repugnance.

Leaf nodded her small grey head. “He was a warlord. A brute, who had massacred hundreds of my kin. The grand-sire of Bran, the one you name Builder. We transformed him into something new. But we failed. He did not stay underneath our control for long.”  


“The first White Walker.” Sansa confirmed. “Their leader, the Night King?”

“He was a monster. We did not intend for him to turn even more so. But his blood carried too much power; the devotion of his people. Men are creatures of spring, of light. We needed a beast of endless winter to drive them out.”

“Why did he turn on us? If the Others were once men, as you claim, why did he fight against us?”

“He didn’t, not at first.” Leaf shrugged, “After breaking free from our power, he seemed too lose all will to fight. He was no longer human, no longer akin to any living creature. We had wielded him in battle against his own son, but lost control of him when he came to understand who he was fighting. As the years went on, more of him turned to ice and darkness, until he lost all memory and notion of what it was to be a man. His ability with ice grew in power, until he could forge weapons and armour.”

Leaf seemed to feel some shame then, crumpling forward and in on herself.

“Bran wept to stand against him. To drive his own kin back and build a wall between our peoples.”

A swift thought burst in Sansa then. “Is that why a man was said to marry a woman of the Others, and breed with her? Because they shared a common ancestry?”

“How else should your ancestor wield a blade of ice crystal? The first Other forged it for him.”

Apparently Ned Stark felt that was enough revelation for one evening, as he coughed pointedly. It was only then that Sansa took in the rest of the room, staring at her in abject horror and fascination. Theon was positively green. There was little she could do to rectify the situation, however, save for remaining quiet whilst her Father wrapped up the proceedings, with promises to address these revelations again in the morn.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa waited nervously for the inevitable confrontations from her brothers and sisters. She was not surprised to find Arya in her bed, evidently in an attempt to stay up and find out what all the secrecy was about. Fortunately, Sansa was spared Arya's persistent questioning style, as her sister was curled up beneath the furs on her featherbed, fast asleep. Sansa was careful to crawl into bed beside her, slow and quiet. Sansa didn’t want to risk waking Arya, and being prodded for information, when she doubted she would get little sleep as it was.

Theon had left the feast as fast as his feet could carry him, though Sansa had attempted to waylay him. He had even gone so far as to shake her hand from his arm, when Sansa had reached out in a bid to stall him. Robb had sent her a grimly sympathetic look, but did not seem confused by his friend’s reaction. Sansa was not shocked either, if she were honest with herself. The ‘facts’ as they had been presented in the hall had painted her as a liar, or at least very reticent and deceptive.

But she had hoped Theon would afford her the chance to explain, before simply dismissing her.

Sansa rose early to catch him before they had to break their fast, dressing herself in an easy wrap-dress. Arya huffed and moaned, but was eventually persuaded back to her own room to ready herself for the day without any satisfying answers to her queries.

Despite Sansa’s best effort, she found the door to Theon’s chambers open, the room empty. His bed and hearth were cold, having not been used. Sansa bit her lip in worry, knowing that Theon would have spent the night in his mother’s chambers. If she set off immediately, she could still catch him, so that they could speak privately. Mind set, Sansa whirled about to do just that, only to find herself facing a solemn-faced Robb.

“Father wants us to break our fast in his solar.” He said, firmly enough for her to understand that it was not a request.

Disheartened, Sansa did as she was bid, and followed her brother to the interrogation that she knew awaited her. She sent furtive glances Robb’s way, to gauge the state of affairs. His grim look, jaw rigid, did nothing to ease her worries.

Her parents were already seated, but her younger siblings were nowhere in sight. It was to be only the four of them. Father’s face was firmly set in the mask of Lord Stark, whilst Mother looked harassed, her hair not as neatly arranged as usual, her eyes red-rimmed from crying or lack of sleep. Sansa resisted the strong urge to apologise for the stress she had caused them. It would do no good now. Words are wind and empty platitudes would not make swallowing the medicine of truth any less nauseating.

The servants silently set out the plates of food, before hastily leaving. The doors to the cosy room were promptly closed decisively by the guards, pointedly all posted outside. To Sansa’s great relief, Father bid them all eat before asking any questions or making another statement about the far North. Sansa could see that Mother especially was impatient to get to the truth, but thankfully she too stemmed her tongue, in favour of attempting to eat. None of them wolfed down as much as they could manage on a normal morning, but Sansa supposed that was only to be expected. If her family’s stomachs were anything like the knotted ball of muscle hers had become, she knew why they only picked at their food.

When their plates were clear enough, and the food washed down by cool water, Father finally spoke.

“I think perhaps, you have a tale to tell us?” He began gently, looking deep into Sansa’s eyes, for perhaps the first time since she held the secret of Jon’s mother over his head.

His soft voice made tears spring to Sansa’s eyes. She had not anticipated so much tenderness. Sansa had prepared herself for their chastisement, for keeping secrets, and not sharing her worries. The reality of sympathy was almost a more difficult weight to bear. She had been so alone with her burden for so long, to have someone to share it with was no small feat.

Sansa fumbled for where to begin, looking out across the room. She had suffered a restless night, torn between telling the truth as she knew it, or accepting Leaf’s suggestion of otherworldly abilities. What might be more believable? Had she changed too much to accurately predict anything as ‘proof’ of her abilities? Would she be able to explain the changes she’d made without sounding the fool? There were so many aspects to consider.

In the face of her silence, her brother leaned closer to catch her eye. Sansa bit her lower lip, still extremely conflicted about which path to choose.

“Does it have something to do with what you once envisaged for us? The lives you said we might lead?” Robb prompted, with a sweet smile.

Grateful for the opening, Sansa nodded silently in return. Robb looked vindicated, a satisfied set to his shoulders, as he sat up straighter in his chair. To buy into whichever narrative he had already constructed would be easier, Sansa assumed. Any of her strange behaviour, he recent choices such as arms training, her insistence that Jon be allowed to train in White Harbour, all could be explained as a result of her new ‘gift’ from the gods, if she allowed it to slot into place without forcing the issue. Assumptions would help her cause more than outright proclamations.

“What do you speak of?” Mother interrupted her thoughts swiftly, before Father had the chance to ask for more details himself.

Sansa sent Robb a beseeching look. She didn’t want to muss the details by revealing too much. Better that Robb explained what he remembered, allowing her to slot in anything he missed. With luck, they would be convinced by her foresight before it was time for the noonday meal.

After taking a long moment to visibly collect his thoughts, Robb delivered her temporary salvation.

“Sansa spoke to us of the futures we all might have.” He said hesitantly, cautious to get the facts correct, “At first I thought it was just a kind of jape. But then she went into more detail, and it seemed like a plan she had developed over time. I thought then that it was too advanced for a girl of her age to have authored, but without another explanation….”

“And what did she say the future holds for House Stark?” Father asked tonelessly. Sansa wondered what feelings he was concealing. Confusion and unease, certainly. Hurt, that Sansa had not come to him with her revelations? Irritation that Robb hadn’t either, as his responsible son and heir? Curiosity at what their past conversations entailed? Or a confusing amalgamation of them all?

Sansa could tell Ned Stark was trying his best to be open to the possibility of it all being true, despite his misgivings. Nothing was better for altering one’s beliefs and priorities than a trip North, Sansa mused mirthlessly. The creatures Beyond the Wall, once confronted, could not be denied. Nor the danger they possessed, over-estimated. She had learnt as much when the Wall had fallen. After that, she was forced to acknowledge all she previously suffered before then was only the beginning of her trials. There were no foes so utterly without mercy and reason than the Others. At least her other enemies, Cersei, Ramsay, Baelish and the rest, could be manipulated, outmaneuvered and eventually defeated.

Robb looked to Sansa, before speaking for her. She nodded in grateful encouragement.

“Well, she said I would be a… great leader, and that Bran would fight by my side. And that… he would be the Lord of Riverrun someday.” said Robb, with an apologetic look to their lady mother.

Mother gasped at that, growing pale at the implication inferred by Robb’s speech. Robb winced, unable to undo the effect of his words, and sent Sansa an imploring look. No doubt wanting her to take over.

“Is this true?” Mother demanded of Sansa, who nodded reluctantly, and finally spoke.

“It isn’t certain.” said Sansa begging them to believe her. “These things I have seen, they can be changed. I have already tested it.”

“And these dreams you spoke of? Is that where you saw these visions?”

Sansa fidgeted uneasily in her chair. It was a mantel she would have to accept, though she was no greenseer. The truth was too preposterous and terrible to impart.

“It is,” she lied brazenly, “Though sometimes I see things while waking, when I pray before the heart tree.”

It was even more fabrication, but it had been true for Bran once, and it served a vital purpose. Tying her knowledge to the gods, would be the quickest way to legitimise it for her Father, who believed the gods spoke to us, if only we would consent to listen.

“What have you seen?” Mother pressed, while Father and Robb absorbed the new information.

Having a relative communing with the gods on a regular basis, was something Sansa wouldn’t wish on anyone. It had been a struggle to care for Bran, when he became like a tree himself, stoic and emotionless.

“Many things,” said Sansa simply, “It would take too long to explain them all.”

“We have time, Sansa.” Father replied softly, but Sansa began shaking her head before he finished speaking.

“We don’t,” she countered, “Not before the darkness falls.”

They all looked very uneasy at that, faces pale as they exchanged uncomfortable looks.

“Will you expand a little, at least, on what you spoke of before? Jon fighting beside wildlings? And what you know of the Others?” Father asked, in a tone that told Sansa she would not leave this room until she consented to do so.

Thankfully, it was the correct topic, the one which Sansa must press most of all, before the realm became obsessed with who sat upon the Iron Throne. She quickly nodded, to show her willingness to comply, before studying her hands in an effort to work out how to begin.

“The sun will set, and not rise again for years,” she predicted, careful not to give specific dates or durations, lest it happen differently in this life. “We must prepare for a second long night, a winter harsher than these Seven Kingdoms have seen since the Age of Heroes.”

“We can trade for supplies from Essos and the Reach. We can build storehouses, and fortifications for Winter Town. If Moat Cailin can be rebuilt in time, we can store more there.” Father mused, while Mother and Robb seemed plainly horrified by her words to do much practical thinking.

“It won’t be enough,” Sansa denied, her red waves bouncing as she shook her head, “You need to convince all the Northern lords to do the same, to sell anything they can do without and buy food, but also Dragonglass from Stannis Baratheon.”

“Dragonglass?” Father repeated, brow furrowing in puzzlement, “Whatever for?”

“It kills wights- the undead creatures you fought.” Sansa revealed, proud to be finally revealing something of utmost importance. “The castle at Dragonstone is sitting on a literal mountain of it. Stannis will give you a fair price for it; he has no use or interest for it.”

“Gods be good,” Father whispered, “Sansa, are you sure of this?”

“Unequivocally,” Sansa said immediately. “Have men of the Night’s Watch carry it, to test the theory, but I know it to be fact.”

“What else do you know of, that can aid us in this fight?” Robb asked, full of the brash optimism of youth.

“Valyrian steel kills the Others themselves.” Sansa said promptly.

For a while there was nothing but shocked silence. Sansa saw at once a look of revelation come across Robb’s face, and offered him a lop-sided smile of confirmation. Still, it did not stop him from voicing his realisation out loud.

“That’s why you persuaded me that Father should take Ice, North of the Wall.” he breathed out, somewhat in awe of her, for managing this feat without honest explanation.

Robb had much to learn about persuasion and manipulation, Sansa thought wryly. He could not hold to this level of innocence, if he was to become a great leader, as he had so timidly put it.

“That was your doing, Sansa?” Father clarified, “Robb insisted the wildlings would recognise the blade, and grant me greater respect. And Jory told me a curious riddle that had me glad of the decision.”

Sansa said nothing, waiting for Father to ask a direct question. With a sigh, he did so, but it was not what she had anticipated;

“And Jon? You never explained the connection between him and this fellow, Tormund.”

Sansa shrugged. Being too specific now would be pointless. Jon had met Tormund whilst on a catspaw mission for the Night’s Watch. The same thing could never happen now.

“I only saw a bloody battle in the snow, where they fought as brothers. Tormund defended Jon from foes, and they were great friends. That is all I saw.”

Father seemed mollified with this explanation, however, whilst Robb was clearly intrigued as to how their brother would come to befriend the notoriously fierce wildling. If they ever actually met in this world. Sansa briefly wondered how she might manipulate circumstances to bring them to the same place at the same time, before remembering she had far more important objectives to secure. The gods could handle the meeting of Jon and Tormund; they had already seen fit to bring Tormund this far south, where it was far more likely their paths may cross.

“And what of Riverrun,” said Mother, always eager to turn the subject away from her husband’s supposed bastard, “What is to befall it, that Bran becomes its lord?”

“That I did not see,” replied Sansa promptly, “And as I said before, these things are not set. They can change.”

“How do you know that, Sansa?” Father asked demandingly, clearly becoming frustrated at her non-elaborate answers.

“Because I saved Jon Arryn’s life.” said Sansa, before she realised she was going to do it.

The idea had come to her as a sudden inspiration, and she quickly seized upon it, surprised she had not thought of it immediately. It was, after all, the reason they had not yet been invaded by a contingent of Lannisters and false Baratheons. It was the perfect solution; if pressed, Jon Arryn would admit the contents of the letter Sansa sent him to a man he considered almost a son. And Father would be proud and grateful that she had saved his foster father.

Father’s eyebrows flew up, and he sat forward in his chair. Sansa knew then that she had him.

She explained how she had written anonymous letters, admitting to inciting the Martells to come to Winterfell, so that they might be future allies. She did not mention the one to Stannis about Gendry. She wanted no association between Gendry and Robert until truly necessary. Cersei and the Lannisters had too much power for the nonce, and though she suspected Stannis had told her father the truth, Father at least could be relied upon to keep those facts to himself. Mother, she was not so sure of. Mother trusted people because of their birth and status, rather than for who they had proved themselves to be in action and word.

Which is why it was also important that Mother be broken of those assumptions now. Sansa did not mince her words as she explained how she had seen Aunt Lysa pour something into Jon Arryn’s drink, and how he had been laid out with stones upon his eyes. Mother paled, horrified and trembling, before her control snapped, and she denounced Sansa as a liar seeking attention.

“Horrid girl!” Mother cried, “What do you hope to achieve from these lies?”

“Peace, Cat.” said Father stiffly, deeply affected by the potential danger to his old mentor. “Sansa is only relating what she has seen.”

“You believe this, Ned?” Mother gasped, “My sister would never-”

“It has been many years since you last saw her, Cat.” Father countered, “From all reports, Lysa’s many failed pregnancies have put a considerable strain on her. We do not know all the circumstances, but we cannot rule it false outright.”

“I will not listen to this,” Mother snapped, primly gathering her skirts, ready to take her leave. “Ice monsters and Children of the Forest are one thing, but to accuse your own aunt of murder? Sansa, I do not know what will become of you.”

Mother shook her head, shrugging away from Father’s hand when he tried to slow her progress to the door. He stayed on his feet, watching it close behind his wife in consternation at the abrupt, unpredicted end to the meeting.

Robb offered Sansa a supportive look.

“She’ll come round.” he said, reaching across the table to give Sansa’s hand a quick squeeze. Robb believed her, unflinchingly.

“Oh, Robb,” Sansa sobbed, sorry that she had wanted him to become more politically savvy and less optimistic all the time. He was perfect exactly as he was.

Sansa launched herself out of her chair and into Robb’s arms, gratified when he caught and embraced her immediately, stroking her back soothingly. Finally affording her the comfort she had been sorely missing, since the world had been upended by their guests from the far North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this chapter saved as a half-finished draft for over a month, lol. Finally done!


	7. Chapter 7

Theon was in the godswood when she finally found him. Seated at the foot of a familiar pockmarked oak, scarred by her arrow holes and the score marks from his knife. He was rubbing a shiny apple between his hands, and the heavy set of his brow told her Theon might currently be weaponless, but she should not mistake that for defenseless. Sansa knew to expect resistance and defiance, and that her pretty words and sweet smiles would not be enough. She had shown Theon some of her truth. More than any, he had looked past the genteel lady Sansa fastened about her face each morn, to glimpse at the wolf cloaked within. But even he did not suspect the extent of her deception, and she well knew how terrible it was to learn someone you accepted as an ally, was false.

Sansa’s only hope was that Theon would listen to her attempt to explain, and learn to trust her again. She might have concealed vital facts from him, but it was done out of love and not spite, nor a desire to toy with his affections. Providing Theon could be convinced of that, Sansa knew she had a good chance of winning him over quickly. It would be far harder if Theon’s pride was too wounded, to willingly swallow her next mouthful of pretty lies.

Truly, Sansa did not know how she would react if Theon rejected her outright. At first, her efforts to get close to him had been purely motivated by her mission. Her personal goal of becoming a competent archer seemed like the best method. Acquiring the skill from the best teacher available, while fostering good relations with a desired ally. It would have been ridiculous to waste the opportunity, and seemed like killing two birds with one arrow. She had not intended on making him more than a close friend, a foster brother to her, as he had been to Robb.

But somewhere along the path, Sansa had realised she no longer cared for her goal of finding a Northern husband. Cynically, her betrothal to Theon would actually be a more decisive way to tie his loyalty to House Stark. Yet Sansa would not have demanded upon it, using such base vicious methods on her lord father, if that were her only reasoning. No, her feelings for Theon were genuine, and compelling. Not yet love, but then Sansa had never actually been in love, not the deep, consuming love that could ruin dynasties and plunge Kingdoms into war. What would she know of it? Save knowing that her heart raced, when Theon so much as pinned her with that stormy ocean gaze, that his kisses tasted sweeter than any drizzle of lemon on her lips. That would be mere lust, not love, if it were the story entire.

But they had common ground, and supported one another in their ventures. Sansa enquired about and truly cared for Theon’s stories of childhood. He too asked after her girlish activities, and had long since stopped teasing her about the interests they did not share. He even bought her a pack of expensive moonpearl buttons, months after she had gushed about how pretty they were on dresses. Sansa had encouraged him to make positive inroads with his estranged family, without falling into the trap of pretense to the adherence of the Ironborn way. In turn, he supported her efforts to foster a better relationship with her siblings, and had made efforts to be kinder to Jon himself. They had a positive influence on each other, and made a good team. It was a strong foundation with which to build a relationship upon.

Even before they had their first kiss, they could share hours in private company, and never grow bored with one another. During their unofficial courtship, they had only grown closer, exchanging thoughtful gifts, and dancing joyously whenever they could wrangle the excuse for prolonged public touch. Theon’s japes made Sansa smile, his touch made her tremble, and she knew that her heart would break in twain, if he relinquished her and broke off their betrothal. Theon had grounds in Westerosi custom. He could call her visions madness, or if he was feeling charitable, claim she had mislead him with falseness of character, as she had not revealed the truth beforehand.

As cutting as her lady mother’s rejection had been, Sansa had not truly expected anything less. Yet she had not anticipated losing Theon over this issue, and was not sure how well she would recover from it. She would do her duty to her family, and the realm she was desperate to save from all the terrors lurking in the foggy dark, and deep snow. That should be sufficiently distracting to take her mind from matters of the heart. That, and regaining the love of her mother.

Catelyn Stark was a woman entirely enchanted by songs, but not in the way Sansa had once been. Sansa-that-was could not have believed anyone beautiful in the flesh to be rotten in thought and action. Similarly, Mother did not believe that anyone of low or base birth could be more honourable and trustworthy than a noble from a great House, born with wealth and prestige. The noted exceptions were the Freys and the Lannisters, but in Mother’s mind, that could be rationalised by their greed and foul breeding. She could never suspect her own family of the same base treachery or penchant for insane cruelty.

Mother did not believe that experience shaped a person overmuch, at least not with the same importance as birth status and blood. Sansa knew that no amount of honeyed words could convince her Mother of the truth, until she saw it for herself. For Sansa herself had been the same. The teachings of her Mother and Septa had lulled her into a false belief of what the world would be, and no amount of gentle coaxing from Father or teasing from her siblings could convince her that life was not a song. Not until Joffrey called for her lord father’s head and called it mercy. Then the scales had fallen from her eyes, but it had been far too late. Lady, Father and Arya had been lost to her before the war began in earnest, and then she was forced to protect herself with only her pretty words. Letting all believe she was too naive and innocent to be a threat.

 _A little bird chirping sweet songs from my golden cage,_ she thought, reminded of Sandor Clegane and his hidden efforts to protect her. _I should have seen it from the first,_ she ruminated, _how he tried to warn me of the ugliness of the world._

She had yet to think of a way to repay him for his efforts to save her, but she hoped their paths would cross again in this life. Robert Baratheon should bring the Hound North again, and perhaps she would be able to persuade him to remain here, despite her lack of lustrous Lannister gold. But it would be useless if she could not persuade a man who already loved her, or something close to it, to remain by her side. She needed to focus on winning him over and not future, perhaps fruitless, ideals.

“I thought I might find you here,” she began, her voice supple and soft as wind chimes.

“Did the trees tell you?” he asked snidely, already on the defensive against her efforts to lull him.

Sansa bristled at his tone; reminding herself she was the one who had mislead and manipulated him, in an effort to stay calm, and remember he had the right of it. Theon had been honest with her, willingly allowing her to chip away at the sarcasm and arrogance shielding his heart. It was to be her silent shame, that she could not truly allow him to do the same to her. Too much was as stake for her to bear her whole heart to anyone, and risk falling into a pit of despair she could not escape.

“I know you must be puzzled, and have many questions,” she said reasonably, “Why don’t you ask me what you wish to know?”

Theon fixed her with a hard, unimpressed look. Gentle persuasion would not win him over today.

“How could you keep these prophetic dreams from me? I thought you trusted me. Was any of it real?” he eventually asked in a burst of emotion, after a long pause wherein Sansa considered pleading with him to give her a chance to explain.

“You will have to be more specific than that,” Sansa chided, “of what do you suspect me of hiding from you, save for an ability I did not understand nor wish to indulge? This time between us has been such a happy one, perhaps the best in my life. Or do you think me capable of faking all emotion?”

“How should I know?” Theon asked, leaping to his feet in a blaze of anger, “How can I know anything? You claim to have seen it all in the future, the lives of your brothers and sisters and me. So was any of it real, or did you simply accept that you had to win me over, knowing that one day we would be wed? A foregone conclusion you could not avoid, so had best make good use of?”

“Is that what you truly think?” Sansa asked, irritation creeping into her own tone. “That I would simply accept all I had seen, and meek as a mouse go to accept my fate?”

Theon looked away from her, scuffing his boot petulantly against the leaf litter, huffing out his breath as he pouted in a sulk.

“I thought you cared for me,” he whined, “For me, not Lord Balon’s son, the future ruler of the Iron Islands, or any other title you might care to give me. For me alone. Not the chance that I might make you a Queen someday.”

He sounded so crestfallen that Sansa wanted to run and throw her arms about him, and promise him anything if only he would smile again. But a man’s pride is a fragile thing, and she knew he would not welcome her affection now.

“I promise you, Theon, what I saw for you is not the path you are on now,” she admitted, in a low voice barely legible above the wind.

Theon chanced a glanced a look at her again, and she felt bold enough to step several feet closer, drinking in the unsure trepidation on his face. His mind had not yet been made up to cast her aside, so she yet had a chance to win him over.

“You did not see us together? We are not an inevitable match, that you may as well accept?” Theon clarified, and so Sansa felt sure enough to move even closer, and place her hand beside his elbow, resting daintily on his folded arms.

“Is that what worried you?” she asked, “Did you think none of my affection for you was genuine, only affected, to win your heart, knowing my life beside you would be easier if you loved me?”

It was not an entirely unlikely scenario, for someone who was truly a seer. Theon hadn’t shown any interest in Sansa until she had pushed her way into his orbit, forcing him to acknowledge her growing beauty and poise. She had ensured that he would come to care for her, with her attention and dedication, knowing few highborns gave him leave to monopolise their attention. Sansa was perhaps guilty of taking advantage of his vulnerability, but not due to a fated relationship she knew she could not escape. Quite the opposite.

“Is that not at least some of the truth?” Theon pressed, “Will you tell me honestly now; were we married, in these dream-visions of yours?”

“No, my dearheart,” she whispered, “In my darkest dreams I married a man, known to us now, who treated me ill and assaulted me daily. You had been tortured during the war, and became a pale shadow of your former self.”

Theon paled at that, his eyes widening as she rubbed at his arm soothingly, as though he were a skittish horse.

“We were both desperately unhappy, you and I. I had hoped to protect myself from my awful husband by growing proficient with the bow. I knew you to be the best archer in Winterfell, and hoped through the lessons that we might become friends. So that you would trust me, when I advised you on how to avoid being captured by your future tormentors. I did not intend for this feeling between us.”

Theon’s eyes danced about Sansa’s face, trying to determine her sincerity, and it made her sad to know that they had reached a point where he did not believe her outright, because of her past deception.

“You wanted to save me?” he clarified, wetting his lips with a dart of small, pink tongue.

“I did,” she confirmed, gratified when his arms began to sag out of their rigid posture, uncrumpling to hang down loose. “And in doing so, I unwittingly saved myself.”

He wrapped an arm around her back, holding her in a distant embrace. “These visions sound terrible. It must have been horrible to witness, with no one to turn to.”

“They were,” Sansa sniffled, moved by the first spoken sympathy she had received for her plight, “It was hard to be joyful, knowing what could await us.”

“If we are not fated to be together, how can we hope to have a future?” Theon asked softly, regretfully, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t want you to marry a man who will treat you ill and not cherish you as you deserve.”

“Oh, my love,” Sansa sighed, “I will marry no man but you. The future will be what we make of it. There is no fate, save for that which we make for ourselves.”

Then they spoke no more, for Theon mirrored her heavy breath and leaned forward, to press his forehead against hers, and hold her warm body close his, as Sansa sagged into his indulgent empathy.


	8. Chapter 8

They settled uneasily at the top table. Theon chivalrously lead Sansa into the room by the hand, before pulling out her chair. She sat primly, pleased by his obvious care and public attention. Robb took his usual seat to her left, gracing her with an approving, encouraging smile. No doubt Sansa would need his support again, before this meeting was through, and she was glad she could rely upon it. Robb's constancy was a boon to her, in a world of fickle, unpredictable foes and well-intentioned allies.

Father sat back deeply, brooding in his own chair as the Northern lords, Ironborn and Dornish, and their trusted men, began to file into the hall. The intention had been to pick up where last night's discussions had ended, with the continuance of Leaf's explanations. Tailored by Sansa's insistence on plain, not self-serving, truth. But it was not to be; Maester Luwin arrived wearing a frown heavier than his chains. Carrying a missive which he quickly handed to Lord Stark. Evidently, Mother had sent it; her seat was still empty, and looked likely to remain so.

Sansa was immediately, extremely troubled by Mother's intention to refrain from attending the meeting. It was a very public proclamation of Lady Stark's displeasure. All the men knew her to be hale enough to attend, so they would correctly assume private strife in the household of their liege lord. Measter Luwin whispered that Lady Stark cited her duties in the nursery, and her lack of use in the discussions. Which the vassals would recognise as an irritatingly obvious fabrication. Father was not pleased to hear it, his lips pressing together thinly in consternation; but there was nothing he could do.

Once all the men were seated, Ned Stark would have to proclaim the reason for his wife's absence. His attempt at subterfuge would doubtlessly fail to convince anyone that it was the actual truth. There was no telling how deeply this blow would resonate, and Sansa cursed her inability to mollify her mother. It was important that the Starks present a united front, if they were to persuade the rival factions in the room to do the same. Sansa said nothing, giving no indication to anyone she had overheard Father's words. But judging by the way he had stiffened beside her, Robb had also recognised the damage that was about to be inflicted upon their cause.

At the first opportunity, when Father turned to exchange greetings with Prince Oberyn and presented his back to her, Sansa darted out of her chair. She was across the room before anyone could think to protest. Catching Theon’s curious eye and Robb’s questioning frown, Sansa shrugged helplessly, knowing there was no time to explain. An eel, she slipped out of the side entrance before Hallis Mollen, who was standing guard afore it, could think to prevent her. She hastily made her way to the family wing in a brisk walk. Despite the need not to tarry, Sansa was aware the sight of her running would be unusual enough to cause interest. She could not afford to be unduly noticed by prying eyes.

In the nursery, Rickon was building a wobbly tower from wooden blocks upon the rug, attended by Bessie, a dutiful nursemaid. Old Nan was seated in a comfortable leather-backed chair, knitting furiously by feel alone, her eyesight too degraded to be of use. Her fingers were a blur, and nary a stitch was dropped. Mother was seated beside her, cradling Minisa in her gentle hold, curled into the rocking chair. She stiffened at the sight of Sansa, her pale face sharpening, as though invisible fingers were pinching at the flesh.

“Sansa!” Rickon beamed, waving a wooden block in her direction.

“Hello, sweetling,” Sansa greeted him warmly, before offering her mother the same winsome smile (which she did not return), and a shallow curtsey as she bid her good morn.

Mother nodded stiffly, no words passing from her stubborn lips.

“Bessie, leave us please,” Sansa ordered firmly, but not without kindness. The young woman turned to blink at her in surprise, before gathering her skirts about her without question. She curtsied to Sansa obediently, and left, closing the thick oak door behind her almost silently.

Sansa proceeded to take her place, her serpentine skirts rippling and hissing across the bare stone as she walked demurely to her brother. Rickon immediately handed her a block. The set had been oven-blackened and hand-carved by Father for Robb and Jon, when they were but Rickon’s age. They had all taken turns possessing them, and before long Minisa would too.

Sansa added her wooden cube to the growing mountain, the two Stark children taking turns. Until at last their unsymmetrical structure could no longer balance, and toppled to one side, collapsing in a heap whilst Rickon shrieked and hooted in delight. Whilst laughing at his antics, Sansa saw her mother’s reluctant smile from the corner of her eye. But Sansa did not yet press her advantage, instead beginning the repetitive game anew. Knowing it would take longer than that for Mother to drop all her defenses.

Every five minutes or so, Sansa shuffled a little closer to where Mother was seated. Disguising her movements as rearranging her skirts, or making her legs more comfortable. When Sansa was seated practically before her lady mother’s feet, she stopped.

After a half-hour of playing with Rickon, Sansa saw Old Nan’s fingers began to slow. When at last Sansa was convinced the old woman was asleep, she turned to her mother. Minisa too was snoozing, her tiny snuffling breaths the snorts of a foal. Mother regarded Sansa with feline-suspicion, but she was not deterred.

“Mother,” she began softly, mindful that they were not alone, “I owe you an apology.”

Catelyn Stark regarded her daughter with grand surprise, before nodding decisively. As though she had expected such words to come tumbling from one of her blood all along.

“I should say you do,” she sniffed primly, whilst jiggling the baby on her lap a little, to redistribute her weight. “I do not know what has come over you lately Sansa, but I am glad to see you have come to your senses. I only wish you had refrained from hurling baseless accusations against your own kin first.”

Sansa allowed her lady mother the time to get out the speech she had evidently been practising, without interruption. When she sensed there was no more to follow, Sansa replied.

“I’m sorry. You have mistaken my meaning.” She barrelled onward before Mother could protest; “I do not profess to be sorry for what I said. For I spoke the truth, no matter how much you wish it were otherwise. But I am sorry that the truth hurt you, and that I could not spare you from that pain.”

Mother’s nostils flared wide, her jaw clenching down so hard that Sansa heard the click of her teeth meeting.

“You dare to continue thus...to assault me, and the House of my forefathers, so? Rotten child, what have I done to deserve such disrespect?” Mother moaned, her lightning-flash of anger quickly making way for the rumbling thunder of misery.

Lady Stark shook her head in disbelief, over the sheer audacity of her previously favoured child. Sansa suspected that her mother was wondering how she could have been fooled, into ever believing her eldest daughter was sweet-natured and innocent.

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Mother.” Sansa pleaded, “It is never my intention to bring you heartache, I swear it by the old gods and the new. But I cannot go on ignoring the knowledge I carry about me, like a leaden weight hanging about my neck. My spine would break if I did not share it, and deservedly so.”

It was true that Sansa had never intended to bring hardship into her parents' life or marriage. Ugly truths needs must be revealed, but she wished she could have done so in a manner that was not quite so distressing. Yet Sansa had become staunch in her beliefs, and she refused to waver now.

Sansa continued to champion the need for truth, and the unearthing of secrets long buried; “For concealing truths, out of some foolish notion of pride or honour, so as not to harm the feelings of others… it is an evil I will not abide, from others. I would be the worst kind of hypocrite if I then behaved so myself.”

Mother did not deny her words, eyeing Sansa with a glimmer of slow-forming, grudging respect. She seemed to agree with Sansa’s words and ideals, merely wishing that it was not her own family currently being held to account. At length, her mother sighed wearily, and reached down to press her soft palm against Sansa’s cool cheek.

“Oh, my girl,” she whispered, “Long I laboured, to bring you into this world. You have been a joy to me every moment hence. Lately, I felt you slip from my influence, like water seeping through the cracks between stones, and I feared what would become of you.”

Sansa waited impatiently, a heavy stone where her stomach should have been. Was Mother about to give her up, disown her entirely? Or was she working her way toward acceptance and forgiveness? She pressed her hand atop her mother’s; anchoring them together in a step toward harmony.

“You have never been a cruel, malicious girl. I do believe you, when you claim to have wished to spare me this pain.” Mother admitted, but her words were too joyless to inspire much hope in Sansa.

Doubtless, Catelyn Stark could still devise other reasons to dismiss her daughter. Still, Sansa nodded, to show she was listening and had understood. Meanwhile, Rickon tipped over a row of thin blocks, blissfully unaware of the importance of the conversation happening at his back. Gradually, Sansa prised her mother’s hand from her delicate face, taking hold of the appendage in her own, until their hands lay entwined across Mother’s lap.

“If that boy were here, I might have suspected some manipulation on his part, to turn you against me, and my House.” Mother finally said, softly, with a small grimace. “That, I could have at least understood.”

Whether her expression was due to the reminder of Jon’s existence, or the proof of her own prejudice, Sansa did not know. She knew better than to enquire. She had already pushed Mother past the limits of her patience, quite enough for one moon.

Sansa knew that she must work on Mother moving toward acceptance of Jon, if they were ever to be close again. But all must come at its proper time. After all the sweet lies Sansa had fed her parents, she knew they would not trust her again until she could demonstrate a great force of character, and a willingness to accept their authority. So she said nothing. Allowing her Mother the space to breath and consider her thoughts before speaking.

“But to accuse your own blood of such base treachery... can you really blame me, if I do not condemn my sister on the word of your dreams?” Mother pleaded softly, “I know you truly believe them to be true. I do not doubt that. But you ask me to trust the in same, Sansa, and how can I? When you could so easily be mistaken?”

“I would never ask that of you, Mother,” Sansa denied quickly, with a shake of her heavy head. “I only ask that you open your mind to the possibility, despite how awful it is.”

Catelyn shook her head in denial, but Sansa had found a crack in her defences, and fully intended to chip away at it.

“I only beg that you do not undertake any rash action, which cannot easily be undone, until I can prove to you what I claim is true.” Sansa asked, in a tone as deferential as she could manage.

Uncharacteristically, Mother let out a sarcastic snort of disbelief.

“You need not worry on that front, my dear,” she revealed, “Your Father has already seen to it. I am not sure have ever been more humiliated; he had ordered the guards to prevent me from leaving Winterfell, and Maester Luwin is not to bring me communications or send mine own, without Lord Stark reading them first.”

Then it was Sansa’s turn to wince, as she could see how mortified her mother must have felt, to be treated thus. Sansa herself did bear some blame for the order, which did not bode well for her attempt to win her mother over to their cause. Nethertheless, Sansa could not be sorry for it, if it prevented Mother from revealing their advantage to the enemy. Further than that, she was proud of Father for prudently implementing the necessary, if uncomfortable, order; even in spite of the fact it would no doubt inflict greater damage upon the relationship between man and wife. Evidently, it had done so, as Mother had never referred to her lord father as ‘Lord Stark’ in Sansa’s hearing before.

Once the floodgates had been opened, Mother found she could not stem the unwanted flow, and her tirade continued:

“As you know, we lately received news that my brother’s new wife was delivered of a girl babe. And I could not even congratulate them, without my husband pouring over my words and picking them apart for hidden secrets.” Lady Catelyn revealed miserably, “Can you begin to imagine how that feels? I have become a stranger to my own family. A prisoner in mine own home.”

Sansa felt as though her heart might break, so deep was the pain in Mother’s voice. She gripped her lady mother’s hand tightly, and promised it was not so.

“I am sorry for that Mother, truly I am.” she replied, “It was not my intention to lay an unsheathed sword between you and my lord father. Would that I could have revealed all- without causing you this pain.”

Mother sighed again, unshed tears sparkling in her lively blue eyes. Her jaw was set, resolved to show no more vulnerability to her unflowered daughter.

“We cannot undo what has been done.” Mother agreed, “Come now, let us have no more of this. I am done with this detestable pity for myself. Nan!”

With a great heave, Old Nan burst awake, blinking several times in quick succession, as though startled by the light. Her fingers twitched where they were still entangled in her knitting, but she quickly regained her equilibrium.

“Yes, my lady?” Old Nan asked placidly, just as though she had always been awake.

“Please take Minisa to her cot, and watch over Rickon. I will send a girl to attend upon him also. Sansa and I have somewhere we need to be.”

“Certainly, Lady Stark,” Old Nan agreed immediately, raising her ancient bones from the chair with the strength of a woman less than half her age. Her grip on the babe was just as sure, as she gathered the girl from her lady’s arms.

Sansa allowed her mother to lead the way from the nursery, both women pausing to bid good day to Rickon, before making their way swiftly through the passageway. Sansa assumed they were headed toward the Sept, and was surprised when Lady Catelyn veered to a sharp left, down a winding staircase to the lower levels, a route more commonly taken by the servants.

Hallis Mollen, who was still on duty outside the door to the great hall, quickly straightened from his bored slump at the sight of his lady. He said not a word, dutifully standing aside and opening the heavy door so that Sansa and her mother may enter the private meeting. Murmurings across the hall fell silent as they strode in, confident with their invitation and place. Mother had never looked more regal, a true Northern Queen, as she stood tall before the owlish gazes of her husband's bannermen and allies.

"Forgive my tardiness, my lords. My duties kept me from this vital meeting, their completion hastened with assistance from my dutiful daughter. I will promise not to waste much time catching up to the deliberations, if you will permit me." Her words were sweet like honeyed wine, only her firm tone revealed some of the bitter medicine concealed within.

"Certainly, Lady Stark," Roose Bolton was the first to reply; "And may I say, our tired eyes are much refreshed by your presence. We have been discussing Lord Stark's intention to host every lord in the North, and what can be gained from such gathering."

"I am much obliged to you, my lord," Catelyn Stark murmured, dropping into a shallow curtsy.

Calmly, she ascended the raised dias to take her seat beside her pleased husband. While Sansa did the same, at the opposite end of the table, casting a bright smile toward her own love, as Theon held out his hand for her to take. Steadying her, as Sansa settled back into her role as the premiere daughter of Winterfell.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa observed the near-silent room with a critical eye. Since last she observed them the previous evening, very little had changed. Lord Cerwyn had rallied since Father’s public put down the night before, probably due to an equal show of deference toward him this morn. She crossed looks briefly with Lord Bolton, finding his lizard-cold eyes watching her, motionless and devoid of all feeling. Domeric Bolton sat steadfast at his father’s side, a silent sentinel.

The wild men had been afforded a bench of their own, and they sat hunched together, humourously visible in their dirty, makeshift furs. The Ironborn were their closest neighbours, no less savage despite their neatly-sewn boiled leather armour, and many weapons. The two factions, hailing from very different domains, glowered at one another menacingly. But if it were not for his clothes, and the well-crafted axe strapped to his waist, Victarion Greyjoy could easily have been mistaken for a wildling in certain instances, Sansa thought.

How strange it was to consider that these large, strapping men were enemies; when they shared so many qualities, and much joint heritage. Her own voice from years past rang out like a silver bell chiming in her mind; _Cutting off heads is very satisfying, but that’s not the way you get people to work together._ No matter her personal feeling with regards to many of the men or families represented in this room, Sansa knew her past sentiment still held true. How else could she stomach working with the likes of savages, Ramsay Bolton or kinslayers such as the Sand Snakes?

They had once damned themselves in the eyes of gods and men, but not yet; and perhaps not ever in this life. Sansa would do her best to paint the truth of the situation; what they chose to do with that information was upon their own heads. They were free make their own choices, and if those choices conflicted with her own goals, or stood in her path, she would not hesitate to cut them down. Gone was the girl who wanted only sweet babes and a comely keep to decorate in the most lavish furnishings. Sansa had become a political creature, a spider weaving her threads and gorging herself on the fatted flies of opportunity that flew, unsuspecting, into her web.

While Sansa surveyed what form of web she had already spun, her parents controlled the hall, leading the discussion with patience and soft coaxing. Father had always been a clear-headed, reasonable man, careful and cautious, earning him the moniker of the Quiet Wolf. Mother complimented him perfectly, every inch a lady, sitting with poise and elegance, as she supported her husband’s views and offered infrequent suggestions of her own. Robb, Sansa and Theon were observers rather than active participants, unless called upon directly. Sansa deflected the most impertinent questions, though there were not many, due to her Father’s presence. She had an ominous feeling that she would not be afforded such courtesy in private, and resolved never to walk about the grounds alone. The cause could ill-afford the damage that would be caused, if she were cornered by a ruffian, and her parents discovered it. They would be forced to exact punishment on the incautious bannerman or guest, and Sansa knew it would breed resentment amongst their men.

“And so we are resolved, I hope, to adhere to the rules we have decided upon today.” Father began, his tired voice injected with new passion, that the close of the discussion was in sight. He stood straight-backed and stoic, the mantle of Lord Stark fixed firmly in place.

His voice when he spoke was lofty and deep, but without the arrogance that most men would have carried in his stead.

“I henceforth issue the following decrees,” Father began, “First; that no man nor woman shall draw a live weapon against another, unless in defence of another, or their own life. If they are the first to bare steel, bronze, iron or any other weapon, the punishment will be banishment to the Wall, or the Silent Sisters. The only exceptions being blunted weapons used for the purpose of training, or if they can prove they drew their weapon in defense against man or beast.”

Here, Lord Stark paused to wet his lips, glancing about the room swiftly, and seeing only solemn nods of agreement, continued; “Second, Maesters stationed in households across the North are invited to partake in a meeting with Lady Leaf, to ask their questions freely and make their own observations.”

Maester Luwin seemed to puff up proudly at this, and Sansa wondered how excited he was at the prospect to be the first man to question a Child of the Forest privately, at length.

“Third,” Father said robustly, seeming to draw strength from the approval of his lady wife, who was watching him with a proud smile upon her lips, “All enquiries about the Others, the Lands of Always Winter, the Wall or the History of the North are to be confined within the North, by rider not raven. And all households are to scour their library collections for any information, no matter how small, mystical or unreliable the source, to be shared with the collective.”

Sansa could not contain her broad smile, gratified that the need for research was being taken seriously. There possibility that many lost secrets lay within the walls of keeps and holdfasts all across the North was a likely one.

“Lastly, my eldest daughter is not to be approached regarding her visions, without my express permission, and none other.” Father said, his brow deeply furrowed, speaking of the retribution his mouth avoided, “Sansa will grant a private audience, with myself and those of my choosing also in attendance, only to those whose questions I deem relevant and appropriate. In my absence, permission will be granted, and the meeting overseen, by my son Robb.”

Robb flashed Sansa a broad grin of pure delight, to be public granted such a high authority and position of responsibility. Sansa was thrilled to hear she would be granted such immunity from myriad of inquiries brewing amongst the men and women in the room. But she wondered how it would be possible to enforce such a rule in truth. She supposed she would quickly find out. Honourable men would refrain from going against the word of their Lord Paramount, out of respect alone. Others would fear the consequences enough to be deterred. She had to believe that would cover the vast majority. Those left would feel the lash of her tongue before she ever gave them the answers they sought, if they tried to employ tactless, dishonourable methods to gain them.

Theon casually dropped his hand atop hers, where it was resting against the arm of her wooden chair. Sansa immediately turned her palm upward, so that their fingers could entwine, and he squeezed her hand in soft reassurance. His silent support was priceless to her, as she drew strength from his solid, dependable presence. Theon may have wavered a little when the revelations rocked him, but he had kept their quarrel private, and allowed her to make her explanations in private. For that, she was proud and grateful. Sansa doubted that most men would have behaved so rationally, given the same situation. Pride kept most of them from showing their true face in public, but most they did not expect the same was true of their womenfolk.

Father concluded the meeting by agreeing that all other decisions could be made during the Great Gathering of Northern Lords, as he termed it. The title sounded smart indeed to Sansa, who understood the value of a name. It had the useful quality of having a positive association with previous meetings. The Autumn Gathering was a festival to enjoy the last weeks of the harvest, a final celebration of summer living before the austerity of the hard years of winter set in. There had never been a Great Council in the North, as such a meeting was a Southron concept, reserved for special instances, to determine a ruler when the line of succession was in question. Still, the use of the word ‘great’ linked the concepts in men’s thoughts. Hopefully, the South would be dismissive of the meeting, despite the intrigue it was shrouded in, due to the name. Those that made further enquiries would not find their appetites whetted. Father had demanded the other Lords attend Winterfell under the guise of discussing preparations for Winter, which was not entirely fabrication. Hopefully, that would be enough to disinterest the likes of Baelish, who had ever been dismissive of caution and the North’s tendency to focus on home and hearth before pleasure and affectation. Sansa was counting on her own campaign of misinformation to do the rest.

*

The first to arrive were the Hornwoods, and their attendants. Bran spotted their rust-orange banners proudly fluttering in the wind first, from his place high atop the battlemens. No amount of scolding from their parents, Sansa nor Robb, could dissuade the little lordling from scaling the walls of Winterfell. Even his fear of Roose Bolton’s wrath did not prevent Bran from scrambling all over the walls of the Dreadfort, seeing the fearsome castle from angles never before observed by human eyes. Discovering hidden pockets and hiding spots unknown to all others. Sansa supposed that information may come of use in future years, though it would ease the ache in her heart if Bran found himself a less formidable interest.

Lord and Lady Hornwood were respectful, and elderly, being close to Father’s father age, were he alive. They had one child, a son and heir named Daryn, who was of an age with Domeric Bolton. Polite and deferential, Daryn Hornwood was handsomely formed, slender with a thick square jaw covered in thick black stubble. He was betrothed to Alys Karstark in Sansa’s previous life. But he had died fighting for Robb in the Battle of the Whispering Wood, before the marriage could take place. As yet, no formal betrothal had taken place between Sansa’s distant cousin and the young man, but Sansa had no objection to the match. She would do her utmost see it completed before Daryn ever rode to war again. Daryn had none but a baseborn brother, fostered in Deepwood Motte, and his father would die within the year, of old age. Leaving his mother the lone ruler of the Hornwood.

Donella Hornwood’s fate had been a horrific one. She had travelled to Winterfell to discuss the future of her House, and on the road home, she had been kidnapped by, and forcibly wed to, Ramsay Snow. He had raped her to consummate the marriage; then shut her in a tower and left her to starve to death. Styling himself as Lord Hornwood, until he was legitimised as a reward for his Father’s part in the Red Wedding.

Donella Hornwood’s ugly fate was a stab to Sansa’s fragile heart, as the kindly old lady greeted her with a gentle smile. Ramsay Snow was a monster, and every moment that he breathed was an affront to everything Sansa stood for.

But she had made a vow before the gods. The North must remain stable until the Night King was defeated, and nothing destabilized a kingdom more than a civil war. She could not move against Ramsay and risk rousing the suspicions of Domeric and Roose. Roose may not hold any genuine love for his baseborn son, but Domeric loved him deeply, and Roose’s pride would not allow him to stand aside and do nothing, if Domeric wished to avenge his death. Sansa had so many responsibilities, not the least of which was ensuring the entire North was equipped for Winter and willing to fight against the Others. She could not allow their loyalties to be divided, nor the honour of House Stark called into question.

But that did not make Sansa entirely powerless. If Ramsay’s crimes were brought to light, her lord father could lawfully execute him. Sansa knew most Houses were not as vengeful as the Lannisters, or Oberyn’s Sand Snakes. Northmen would accept an execution if it was warranted. House Bolton had enough ancient grudges against House Stark nursed at their breast; one more would be no issue. They would not move against their liege lords over the lawful death of a bastard, without the backing of a powerful ally. And if Sansa had played her pieces correctly, no one powerful enough would care about elevating House Bolton over House Stark. Not unless her family offended another Lord Paramount or King Robert himself. And while Lord Eddard Stark breathed, Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn would defend him with the full force of their armies. Sansa had faith at least in that.

She was determined to being about an end to Ramsay Snow’s tyranny, one way or another. Domeric had granted him a reprieve. But the risk of Ramsay harming the North through his idiocy and malice, was simply too great for her to allow him to live.

*

Arya was refusing to speak to Sansa, furious that no one would answer her abundance of questions. Robb was receiving the same punishment, condemned for the same crime. Bran had been spared this treatment from their sister, since he too had no idea as to the nature of the discussions held outside his presence. The two of them had kindled a greater friendship due to this joint hardship, and had taken to stomping about Winterfell in cahoots. Rickon constantly toddling after them, thrilled that Bran had come home. Sansa could do little more than hide her smiles behind her hands, whenever she caught sight of her grumpy siblings, so innocent and cross. Whenever Arya was out of sight, Bran would consent to speak to her again, extolling their adventures, his duties for Domeric, and the sights he had seem from the crenellations.

Robb’s lessons seemed to have doubled overnight, and he spent hours a day shut up with Maester Luwin, pouring over dusty, half-forgotten tomes. He was accompanied by Domeric Bolton, Daryn Hornwood and Cley Cerwyn, all heirs to important Northern Houses. When Sansa inquired as to why Theon was only asked to attend some of these lessons, the answer her Father provided was not a satisfactory one. He claimed that Theon’s lessons in Ironborn ways, shared between Victarion Greyjoy and Gwynesse Harlaw, were more valuable.

“If he is to be their ruler someday, he must have a deep understanding of his heritage, Sansa. Lady Gwyn has convinced me they will not accept him, otherwise.” Father revealed, in a firm tone that brooked no argument.

Lips pursed, the very image of her mother, though she could no know it, Sansa gave her silent, if displeased, consent to bow to her father’s authority.

Sansa had spent the interim days in a cloud of detachment. Father had assigned Hallis Mollen and Lyonel Norrey as her personal guards, the two men taking turns to guard her, day and night. It made snatching a moment alone with Theon difficult, though the two men always kept a respectful distance back when Sansa was stationary. No one had approached her unwisely, though Sansa had glimpsed many sneaking looks. Beth Cassel was suddenly nowhere to be found, but Jeyne Poole had rallied to Sansa’s side when called, and since her siblings were now either too busy or too reluctant to keep her company, Sansa was especially grateful for her friend. 

Jeyne thought it thrilling indeed that Sansa had been assigned guards for protection.

“Just like the Queen and Princess Mrycella are followed by the Kingsguard,” Jeyne sighed happily over the romantic notion. “Shouldn’t you have liked to marry a Prince, and be a Princess? You would have been a splendid Princess, Sansa.”

Sansa smiled, replying without verbal comment, knowing her naive friend meant only well.

“Oh, please don’t mistake me, Sansa!” Jeyne clarified, “I am so happy for you, being betrothed to Lord Theon, who is very handsome, and will be a Lord Paramount someday. But the Iron Islands don’t have tourneys…. Or grand dances, and you do so love to dance.”

“When Theon is Lord, he will host many dances for me. Perhaps you can come with me to Pyke, as my handmaiden. We will wear matching dresses of black and gold, and dance until our slippers fall to pieces,” Sansa suggested, her gentle voice weaving a lovely dream.

“That would be very fine indeed,” Jeyne sighed wistfully, basking the image for a long moment, “I should like that very much, Sansa. I hope Father will allow it. He would if you asked, I know it.”

“If you wish it, I will do everything I can to make it so,” Sansa promised, giving Jeyne’s hand a gentle squeeze. She felt as though she had stepped into Margaery Tyrell’s slippers, promising her friend an escape from the castle.

Poor Jeyne had no idea how wonderful this dreary, often drab castle truly was, having no golden-gilt prison to compare it to.  _ And she never will, _ Sansa vowed.  _ Let her keep her dreams. I will see her married to a good man who will protect her, and the likes of Baelish will never get his hooks into her. _

Before long, another day of waiting for their guests was drawing to a close. Mother brushed out Sansa’s hair, resolved to act as though nothing was amiss, avoiding the topic of her Tully family entirely. Sansa, having no desire to open old wounds, let the matter lie for now. It would need to be revisited, but not yet, and perhaps not without Father present.

Sansa knew better than to pull a bowstring too far, lest it snap apart in her grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are much appreciated! I know its been a while, you know how RL can be sometimes... Its all work and family drama atm. My great-grandma is very frail & unwell, and tho its sad to see her decline this way I know she has lead a rich and rewarding life. Tbh this fic is a wonderful distraction from the stress of RL... Thanks to everyone who has stuck with it this far!


	10. Chapter 10

Oberyn Martell was watching her. Sansa pretended not to notice him, kneeling as she was before the heart tree. Only a very disrespectful man would disturb her at prayer, and she knew Oberyn to be a more cunning man than that. Sansa knew he had questions for her, since it was now evident that she was the most likely candidate for being the ‘Red wolf’. She had hidden behind her brother’s matching hair colour, but with Leaf’s false revelations, Sansa knew it was glaringly obvious she was the writer in question.

She wondered how much longer his patience would last, or if he would request an audience with her via her father. The fact that he had not already done so told her how enthusiastic Oberyn was of Ned Stark sitting in on their conversation.

_ He does not trust my father yet, because of his ties to Robert Baratheon,  _ she thought.

At long last, when she could no longer feign dedication to the gods, Sansa clambered to her feet, brushing dirt and leaf litter from her skirts. She met two liquid black eyes, carefully assessing her every move. Wondering if she was skittish Northern flower, apt to run from him, or a girl more akin to his daughters, prepared to stand and fight.

Hallis Mollen was waiting for her at the same entrance to the godswood she had walked to the heart tree from. She had begged for a moment alone with the gods, claiming that none would dare to harm her before them. She hoped it was true, but knew how volatile Oberyn could be in regards to his sister’s honour. She wondered if he wished to revenge himself upon House Stark, for hiding the babe Rhaegar had disgraced Elia in order to gain.

Sansa approached the Dornish lord, a man far taller than her due to her young, girlish form. Her chin was held high, channeling all she had learnt from Cersei on how to stand among men and command them.

“Prince Oberyn, you have questions for me.” she stated, prim and orderly, placing her hands neatly on the lip where her skirt met the bodice of her dress.

“Indeed I do, Lady Sansa,” he replied, equally quietly.

Somewhere nearby, a raven cawed, a warning to be cautious, for they were in a very public place, and could not afford to be spotted speaking alone.

“Not here,” she whispered, eyes intently shining through the early afternoon gloom.

The sky was covered with thick gray clouds, casting a shady pall over them both, drawing long shadows from the stems of each tree branch.

“Do you know which of these towers is named for my brother?” she asked.

Terse, Oberyn nodded once, sharp and serious, patiently waiting for her to continue.

“Join me there tonight, one hour after dinner concludes.” Sansa demanded, “We will speak this night, and this night only. Come alone, and bring all your questions, for I will not flaut my Father’s ruling again for you.”

Oberyn offered her a deep bow, mayhaps recognising the dangerous situation she was putting herself in.

Sansa said nothing more, drawing up her hood and marching along the dirt track that passed for a path through the godswood, back to safety.

*

“Absolutely not, Sansa,” Theon hissed, when she told him of the plan, “Your Father might actually take the lash to me, if he discovers I have allowed you to do this.”

“We are not wed Theon,” she reminded him, “You do not allow me anything, yet. I am resolved to undertake a conversation which cannot be put off any longer, and I would have you with me.”

Theon frowned, utterly unconvinced. They were in the glass gardens, Theon seated on the low wooden bench while Sansa carefully pruned a holly bush.

“I don’t like it,” he insisted, “The Dornish are bloody crazy, Sansa.”

Sansa grinned up at him teasingly; “And the Ironborn are all pirate savages, apparently.”

Theon glared at her, unamused. Sighing heavily, Sansa set down her small pruning clippers.

“Theon, dearest,” she began, “If you won’t accompany me, I shall be forced to ask Robb. He will tell Father, and then we will all be in trouble, when Father throws the Martells out of Winterfell for defying the decree he  _ just _ issued.”

Theon folded his arms, pouting, but Sansa could see that she had convinced him, and smiled to herself as she returned to her work. But she didn’t get long to enjoy it, as Bran came rushing toward them, hopping with excitement.

“The Manderlys are coming!” he shrieked, “Sansa, Sansa- the outrider says Jon is with them!”

Dropping her clippers, Sansa sprung to her feet.

“Are you certain?” she asked, but Bran was already rushing off, screaming for Arya.

Thrilled, Sansa shared every ounce of Bran's joy. She threw her most winning smile at Theon, who was blinking in surprise, wringing out his ear to clear it of Bran’s high-pitched yelling. She took hold of his arm, and together they made their way to the courtyard.

Arya and Nymeria were already there, her sister hopping from one foot to the other in nervous energy.

“Do you think it’s really true?” she demanded as soon as Sansa was in sight.

Sansa shrugged, unable to say, but her heart soared and she knew it must be true. Father had told the Manderlys to delay setting off until Jon returned, but he had granted them leave to march to Winterfell without him, if they risked arriving too late.

Bran came skidding toward them, Summer hot on his heels, Robb and Rickon in tow. Their youngest brother was seated on the eldest's shoulders, kneading and tugging on Robb’s hair in excitement. Robb winced at a sharp pull, reaching up to untangle Rickon’s fingers from his curls. From thereon holding onto his tiny hands, instead of letting them wander free.

The wait seemed unfathomably long, but at last the men in Manderly green began to stream through the gatehouse, followed by a familiar rider clad in dark blue and the fox-fur maroon cloak Sansa herself had made.

“Jon!” yelled Arya, rushing forward. Sansa caught hold of her arm before her little sister could get herself trampled by a horse in her enthusiasm.

Jon leapt down from his palfrey confidently, a broad smile on his face. He was bronzed by the sun, his hair cut shorter than Sansa had seen it in years. Ghost trotted up beside him, proud and regal, his gleaming fur silky and bright. Sansa released her hold on Arya then, and their sister raced forward to leap into Jon’s waiting arms. She hung about his neck like a babe, and Jon pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her tight. Once, Sansa had done so herself, and it warmed her heart to see her sister able to do the exact same, in far less woeful circumstances.

As Arya slid gracelessly down to stand on her own feet, the Stark children and Theon crowded round Jon, not waiting their turn, but instead crushing their wayfaring brother with a many-armed embrace, until Jon was laughing, smothered by affection. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw the Manderlys watching in confusion as the bastard of Winterfell was welcomed home with such genuine love, and a distinct lack of courtly decorum. 

From somewhere behind them, Sansa heard Mother clear her throat in disapproval. But Sansa ignored it, too busy reassuring herself that Jon was safe and whole. He had managed to travel all the way to Essos and back without being set upon or engaging in battle with anyone, and for a Stark, that was very rare indeed. Eventually though, they began to wriggle apart, and Sansa stepped back, still beaming, radiant with happiness. Somehow, Rickon had succeeded in crawling from atop Robb’s shoulders into Jon’s arms, and he wriggled about, getting comfortable, hitched atop Jon’s hip. Thus, Jon gave their Father an awkward shallow bow, having to compensate for Rickon’s weight.

“Welcome home, Jon,” said Father, “And welcome to Winterfell, my lords. My steward, Vayon, shall show you to your rooms in the guest house. I’m afraid I must apologise, but some of your household will have to be housed in Winter Town, for Winterfell is almost at full capacity. I’m sure you understand this is meant as no insult.”

“Indeed, it’s entirely understandable, Lord Stark,” said a robust man, that Sansa knew to be Lord Manderly’s eldest son and heir, “We are most honoured to be here, at this grand occasion for the North, and take no umbridge.”

Sansa could see Wylla hovering behind Vayon Poole, and when he began to lead the Manderly household away, she hurried to greet her father and sister, to eagerly catch up. Sansa assumed they would all begin to filter indoors after them. But her breath caught when she turned back to Jon, to find a familiar, eerie shade from the past was approaching him. 

Though she appeared somehow younger than Sansa had ever seen her, her burning red eyes and dangerous smile were unmistakable. Sansa's breath caught in her throat, and she was motionless, transfixed. Utterly unable to understand how such a change could have occurred. How was it possible that she, of all people, could be here?

Jon gave them an awkward smile when the Red Priestess stood beside him, resplendent in her blood-coloured dress. Even with no furs to keep out the chill, she seemed perfectly at ease, elegant and poised.

“Lord Stark, may I present-”

“Lady Melisandre of Asshai,” Sansa finished, quite unable to help herself.

Jon frowned deeply, turning to look at her in disbelief. 

“Aye,” he said, “But how did you know? I never even mentioned her name in my letters.”

Theon clapped him on the shoulder, in an effort to make light of the situation.

“A lot of odd things have happened since you’ve been gone, mate. Best not to question it all too closely, lest you start to go mad,” Theon advised firmly, his eyes flickering meaningfully toward the myriad of strangers milling about in the courtyard, untying packs from the horses and leading them to the stables.

Jon swallowed, eyeing Sansa suspiciously. But she was too busy meeting the burning red gaze of the Lord of Light’s most ardent follower, to take any note. The red woman met Sansa's perplexed look with a steady, confident countenance.

Father cleared his throat to dispel the awkward atmosphere. 

“Asshai is a very long distance away, my lady,” he said, “How did your travels being you to our home?”

“I go where the Lord commands,” Melisandre announced, as zealous as Sansa had ever heard her.

“Which Lord?” Father repeated, baffled. 

Melisandre’s smile became condescending, as she surveyed the unbelievers before her. “The Lord of Light. The one true god to whom we all owe allegiance.”

“Lady Melisandre is a Priestess of the Red Order,” Jon added sheepishly.

“Indeed?” said Father, unimpressed. “I am sorry you have travelled so far, only to be disappointed my lady. But Winterfell is almost entirely full, due to a gathering between my lords. I cannot rightly turf any loyal bannerman from his rooms, for an unanticipated guest. But there are many places to find lodging in Winter Town-”

“Lady Melisandre can stay in Robb’s Tower,” Sansa blurted, before she had rightly thought it through.

Father gaped at her, horrified that Sansa would invite a guest to remain in his castle, that he obviously did not welcome the presence of. Beside Robb, Theon was staring at her as though Sansa had lost her head. She supposed she must have, when she remembered she had asked Oberyn Martell to meet her in that very same place, only a few hours past. Sansa swallowed thickly, unable to take back the invitation now that it had been spoken.

“With my lord father’s permission, naturally,” Sansa finished lamely, wincing.

Father sighed, supremely irritated with his trying children, whom he could do nothing but continue to love and protect.

“Lady Melisandre, should you prefer, there is a spare room in… Robb’s Tower.” said Lord Stark, “It is to be the wedded chambers of my daughter Sansa and her husband-to-be, Theon. Sansa who so generously offers it has the keys. I am sure she would be glad to lead you there.”

Lady Melisandre curtseyed deeply, revealing much of her pale decolletage, much to Mother’s disapproval. Sansa saw her wince as the strange, foreign Priestess accepted their hospitality. Hallis followed at a distance, as Sansa lead their new guest to Robb’s Tower, pulling the key from beneath her dress, where she kept it on a chain about her neck.

“Robb is the name of your brother, is it not?” Melisandre asked, bestowing Sansa with a gentler, less seductive smile than the ones she had flashed about the courtyard in front of the men.

“Yes,” Sansa replied, “Robb oversaw the extensive repairs this tower needed, to be habitable again. So it was named for him.”

“How industrious,” Melisandre purred, as Sansa unlocked the door to the ground level, wondering how she was going to sneak Oberyn past cunning Melisandre, when night fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My great-grandmother passed away, but I'm okay now. She was born in 1925 and had a grand life. She travelled all over the world (including every state in America), had three children, seven grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren, of which I am the eldest. She was a kind, funny, perpetually late lady who lived her life to the fullest. 
> 
> *
> 
> Jon had a haircut cause its hot as hell in Braavos for a Northman, and there will be no man-buns in any of my fics.


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